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CECIL  CHARLES 


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AT   LOS  ANGELES 


MISS  SYLVESTER'S   MARRIAGE 


"She  was  able  to  speak  composedly.     'I  have  not  yet  been  able 
to  thank  you    .    .    .' " 


MISS 

SYLVESTER'S 
MARRIAGE 

By  Cecil  Charles 

Illustrated  by  W.  Sherman  Potts 


1903 


PUBLISHING  CO. 
NEW   YORK  LONDON 


COPYRIGHTED 

August,  i  901,  by 
ESS  ESS 
PUBLISHING  CO. 


COPYRIGHTED 
1903,  by 
THE  SMART  SET 
PUBLISHING  CO. 


First  Printing  in  June 


3505' 

(2 


Preface 

To  commit  to  paper  the  absolute  verities 

N   of  life  is  seemingly  the  simplest  task  of  the 

•     novelist,  yet  it  is  the  most  difficult  he  could 

M  set  out  to  perform.     It   is   an  ancient   fact 

^  that  truth  is  indeed  stranger  than  fiction,  and 

the  more  closely  a  writer  adheres  to  the  very 

kernel  of  truth,  the  less  likely  is  his  story  to 

c  ,    be  believed.     His  work  no  doubt  should  be 

^:  illuminated  with  some  spark  of  his   imagi- 

—)  nation,  lest  it  be  considered  too  dark  a  pic- 

5  ture  he  paints.     If  the  following  pages  seem 

~  too  photographic,  the  fault  is  hardly  that  of 

the  author,  for  the   endeavor  has  been  made 

CD 

^  to  reveal  this  picture  of  a  phase  in  a  girl's 
life  in  a  perfectly  clear  manner.  Perhaps 
the  figures  in  the  little  drama  may  seem 
too  sharply  drawn  ;  yet  the  writer  believes 
that  the  intelligent  reader  will  understand 
how  the  events  recorded  could  actually  have 
occurred,  and  how  possible,  even  probable, 
it  is  that  similar  events  may  take  place 
again. 

July,  1903. 


oe. 


351492 


CONTENTS. 


I.  A  MEETING I5 

II.  SPANISH  BLOOD 29 

III.  ALMA  is  SURPRISED 41 

IV.  DA  VEIGA  CALLS 53 

V.  IN  THE  PARK 63 

VI.  Miss  SYLVESTER  DISAPPEARS 75 

VII.  LIFE  AND  ILLUSIONS  83 

VIII.  MORE  ILLUSIONS 91 

IX.  A  DAY  OF  REFLECTION ior 

X.  A  MYSTERIOUS  NOTE 109 

XI.  STRANGE  REVELATIONS 121 

XII.  A  NIGHT  OF  TRIAI 135 

XIII.  ALMA  CONFRONTS  HER  HUSBAND 145 

XIV.  A  TALK  WITH  MR.  TRAVIS 153 

XV.  "DIABLO!" i6r 

XVI.  A  PARTY  OF  SEVEN 169 

XVII.    OVER  THE   CURA£OA 175 

XVIII.  ALMA  LISTENS 185 


Content^ 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIX.  HOME  AGAIN v 193 

XX.  EXPLANATIONS 203 

XXI.  MRS.  SEVENBANKS  RETURNS 213 

XXII.  SENOR  VASOUEZ 221 

XXIII.  THE  RECONCILIATION 227 

XXIV.  ON  THE  TRAIN 237 

XXV.  A  DESPERATE  STRUGGLE 245 

XXVI.  A  FINAL  WORD 251 


"  BehoUt,  iue  Know  not  anything; 

I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last— far  off— at  last.    .    .    ." 


TENNYSON — In  Memoriam. 


Miss   Sylvester's   Marriage 


CHAPTER  I 

A      MEETING 

THE  innumerable  tucks  in  the  sleeves  of 
her  chiffon  bodice  appeared  to  fascinate  the 
dark  foreigner ;  he  bent  over  her  constantly. 
The  music  went  on  vaguely,  murmurously, 
and  the  chiffon  seemed  to  float  in  time  to 
its  rhythm.  She  was  an  uncommon  figure, 
with  an  airiness  and  grace  altogether  charm 
ing.  Her  throat  and  neck  were  smooth  and 
delicate,  but  not  fragile  ;  her  arms  were  be 
yond  criticism ;  her  skin  had  a  satiny  gloss, 
striking  in  contrast  with  her  black  hair  and 
dark  eyes  ;  her  eyebrows  were  straight  and 
her  lashes  long  and  fine ;  her  nose  was  as 
perfect  as  Psyche's  and  her  mouth  tropical. 
15 


Her  gown  was  yellow,  and  she  wore  a  pearl 
or  two,  being  a  young  lady  of  taste  as  well  as 
a  niece  of  Mrs.  Sevenbanks  and  a  daughter 
of  the  late  Francis  Sylvester,  Esq. 

The  foreigner  was  not  the  only  one  sus 
ceptible  to  the  influence  of  her  chiffon  aura  ; 
a  couple  of  average  young  dancing  men, 
dallying  in  the  doorway,  exchanged  consol 
ing  confidences. 

"  Nerve  ?  Well,  rather.  Not  the  girl's 
fault.  Where  is  the  old  lady  ?  " 

"The  old  lady  has  got  hold  of  old  Clif 
ford.  Awfully  good  sort  of  chaperon  !  But 
who  is  the  freak,  you  know  ?  Has  a  Philip 
pine  sort  of  look.  One  never  knows  what 
to  expect  in  this  house." 

"  Clayton  affects  oddities  because  he  thinks 
it  English  form.  He  will  keep  on  as  long 
as  he  dares.  When  he  goes  too  far  people 
will  show  him  they  are  bored,  and  he  will 
have  to —  '  he  paused,  glancing  over  his 
shoulder. 

The  voice  that  made  him  pause  was  per 
fect  in  modulation.  "  The  poor  child  finds  it 
dull.  Stepping  from  the  carriage  she  turned 
16 


'g  Carriage 


her  ankle.  I  wanted  to  drive  back  at  once, 
but  she  insisted  it  was  nothing.  Of  course 
she  is  not  dancing." 

The  young  men  receded  from  the  door 
way  with  grace.  Mrs.  Sevenbanks  was  non- 
irritant,  non-astringent  ;  her  gowns  moderate, 
her  diamonds  small  and  her  blondeness  never 
florid.  Her  delicate  encouragement  of  Clif 
ford,  the  well-preserved  old  bachelor  As 
sembly  authority,  was  like  fine  gauze  against 
the  firm  neutrality  of  her  nine-year-old  half- 
mourning.  She  was  never  anything  less  than 
that  cool,  calm,  considerate  creation  of  cir 
cumstance  known  dimly  to  the  polloi,  with 
out  the  pale,  as  the  society  leader.  She  had 
a  smile  for  the  receding  young  men,  and 
then  her  gaze  fell  on  Miss  Sylvester  and  the 
ponderous  individual  of  dark  complexion. 

She  put  up  her  glass  for  an  instant  and 
put  it  down  again.  There  was  no  move 
ment  of  her  brows  as  she  spoke  in  a  low 
tone,  "Alma!"  But  the  girl  heard  and 
rose.  With  a  little  catch  of  breath  she  said, 
"  I  must  go  to  my  aunt.  It  has  been  pleas 
ant  to  hear  you  speak  of  my  native  land." 
2  17 


'g  Carriage 


Then  she  moved  forward  slowly,  as  if  walk 
ing  hurt  her. 

The  man  did  not  follow  ;  he  stood  looking 
after  her  with  intent  black  eyes,  like  one  un 
accustomed  to  ball-rooms  and  unsure  of  what 
he  should  do. 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  paid  no  attention  to 
him,  but  spoke  to  her  niece  :  "  You  are 
looking  pale.  I  think  I  should  take  you 
home." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Miss  Sylvester,  "  I  am 
quite  ready." 

As  she  passed  through  the  doorway  she 
turned  and  glanced  back  at  her  late  com 
panion,  who  replied  to  this  attention  with  a 
very  low  bow,  his  hand  on  his  heart.  The 
bending  of  his  body  in  this  particular  man 
ner  had  something  grotesque  in  it.  Mrs. 
Sevenbanks  made  no  allusion  to  him  until 
her  old  friend  Clifford  had  placed  them  in  a 
carriage  and  they  were  being  driven  home. 
Then,  pleasantly  enough,  she  inquired  : 
"And  who  was  that  peculiar  person,  Alma, 
with  whom  you  were  talking  ?  " 


18 


"  It  was  a  South  American  gentleman, 
Aunt  Louise." 

"  A  gentleman  ?  I  thought  he  hardly 
knew  how  to  act.  I  fancied  .  .  .  these 
— detectives,  you  know.  Still,  it  was  not 
such  a  crush.  .  .  .  What  a  remarkable 
way  of  bowing  !  I  should  call  him  an  amus 
ing  character.  I  wonder  how  he  came  to  be 
at  the  dance." 

"  I  suppose  they  asked  him."  The  girl 
spoke  half-pettishly.  "  He  has  not  amused 
me  at  all.  He  has  made  me  sad — and  sick 
of  this  country." 

"You  surprise  me — though  I  suppose  I 
ought  not  to  be  surprised,  for  I  have  heard 
you  say  something  of  the  kind  before.  If 
you  longed  for  Paris  or  London 
but  to  leave  civilization  and  go  down  there 
among  the  savages " 

"  You  forget,  Aunt  Louise,  that  I  was 
born  down  there  among  the  savages." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  do  not  forget  that.  But  you 
were  educated  for  the  most  part  in  the  United 
States,  and  after  all,  you  are  an  American." 

"Anyway,"  said  Miss  Sylvester,  "I  hate 
19 


New  York !  I  can't  breathe  in  it — there's 
something  stifling  !  "  She  threw  herself  for 
ward  and  held  her  face  to  the  open  window 
of  the  carriage.  Stars  were  faintly  visible  in 
the  sky  where  it  was  clear  of  clouds.  It 
was  a  still  night  early  in  April ;  there  was 
no  breeze.  In  a  moment,  as  if  impatient  of 
their  slow  progress  homeward,  she  fell  back 
against  the  cushions. 

"  Does  your  ankle  pain  you  very  much  ?  " 
her  aunt  inquired,  kindly.  "  I  am  sorry  I 
did  not  insist  on  going  home  sooner.  It 
should  have  been  bathed  at  once  with 
arnica." 

"  I  had  almost  forgotten  it,"  said  the  girl. 
"General" — she  pronounced  it  with  the 
Spanish  g — "  da  Veigh  was  telling  me  stories 
of  fearful  wars." 

"  Hennyrall  ?  is  that  a  Christian  name  ?  " 
Mrs.  Sevenbanks  was  not  an  intentional 
aggravator,  but  she  had  a  way  of  ignoring 
anything  South  American — even  a  Spanish 
pronunciation. 

"  It  is  a  military  title,"  Alma  explained, 
languidly,  though  with  no  tone  of  disrespect. 

20 


ter'£  Carriage 


"  Something  higher  than  colonel.  He  is  an 
exile  now." 

"  You  refer  to  that  very  dark,  very  large 
man  ?  "  Mrs.  Sevenbanks  persisted.  "  He 
is  not  —  of  another  race,  then  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  ask  him  if  he  was  of  another 
race,"  said  Miss  Sylvester,  closing  her  eyes. 

The  carriage  had  turned  into  an  avenue 
and  rolled  more  easily  on  asphalt.  It  was 
less  of  an  effort  to  converse,  and  Mrs.  Seven- 
banks  still  had  something  to  say.  "  You 
are  not  asleep,  Alma  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  To-morrow,  when  your  Aunt  Ester 
Harding  arrives  —  it  is  to-morrow  she  comes, 
I  think  ?  " 

"Yes,  it  is  to-morrow.  If  she  comes  in 
the  morning  I  shall  probably  be  out.  I 
have  promised  Alice  Dow  to  go  out  with 
her.  But  then  Aunt  Ester  may  want  a  little 
chat  with  you." 

The  carriage  had  stopped.     Mrs.  Seven- 

banks  uttered  a  sound  like  a  very  faint  sigh 

as  they  went  up  the  steps  and  were  admitted 

by  the  automatic  servant.     "  There  is  rather 

21 


'g  Damage 


a  bright  light,"  she  said.  "  I  think  your 
Aunt  Ester  may  have  already  arrived." 

Back  where  the  seventy  of  the  drawing- 
room  melted  into  artistic  corners  and  a  five- 
o'clock-tea  nook  the  lights  were  certainly 
brilliant.  The  tea-table  was  drawn  up  by 
the  side  of  the  widest  and  most  comfortable 
chair,  in  which  reposed  a  lady,  her  tremend 
ously  arched  Spanish  feet  in  their  tremend 
ously  high-heeled  boots  resting  on  the 
handsomest  and  costliest  cushion  she  had 
been  able  to  find  in  the  room.  As  Mrs. 
Sevenbanks  and  Alma  came  in,  domino-like 
in  their  shimmering  opera  cloaks,  she  sprang 
up  with  a  cry  like  a  child's  :  "  I  am  here, 
you  see  ;  they  wanted  to  send  me  to  bed, 
but  I  wouldn't  go.  I  ordered  coffee,  being 
half-dead.  I  came  direct  from  Chicago  — 
the  porter  of  the  sleeping-car  stole  my  opals 
—to-morrow  I  shall  enter  complaint  —  and 
to-morrow  I  shall  have  my  face  steamed 
and  a  Turkish  bath.  Till  then  I  represent 
Chicago." 

"  You  are  looking  well,"  said  Mrs. 
Sevenbanks,  embracing  her  mildly  and  at 
22 


'g  Carriage 


once  giving  place  to  Alma.  "  I  am  glad  we 
returned  early.  You  were  very  right  to 
order  coffee,  but  I  fear  it  may  keep  you 
awake.  I  know  how  it  would  affect  me." 
She  smiled,  glanced  at  the  black  lees  in  the 
cup,  shivered  and  glanced  back  at  her  guest. 
"  You  are  looking  extremely  well,"  she  re 
peated. 

Her  private  impression  that  this  other 
aunt  of  Alma  was  getting  shorter  and  stouter 
and  of  a  greasier  olive  complexion  every 
year,  and  more  and  more  inclined  to  gabble 
and  cackle  in  true  Latin-American  manner, 
and  more  and  more  addicted  to  terrible 
black  coffee  and  violent  gestures  and  loud 
colors  in  dress,  she  was  not  obliged  to  ex 
press.  Jt  was  quite  her  own  affair  if  she 
chose  to  consider  quarter-Spanish  —  example, 
Alma  —  bad  enough,  and  half-Spanish  —  ex 
ample,  Alma's  Aunt  Ester  —  much  too  bad. 
She  was  glad  the  visitor  had  come,  for  she 
wanted  to  talk  with  her  about  their  niece. 
Ester  Harding  also  was  a  widow  without  en 
cumbrances,  and  really  ought  not  to  shirk 
her  responsibility  in  the  matter. 
23 


Miss  Sylvester  had  put  off  her  cloak  and 
was  looking  into  the  silver  pot  in  which  the 
coffee  had  been  brought.  "  I  can't  very 
well  have  any  when  there  isn't  any  to  have," 
she  mused  aloud.  Then  she  sat  down  on  a 
sofa  with  both  the  elder  ladies  regarding  her. 
Aunt  Sevenbanks  smiled  and  was  silent ; 
Aunt  Harding  admired  her  gown  of  pale  yel 
low  chiffon  over  silk. 

"  You  were  at  a  ball  ?  "  said  Aunt  Hard 
ing.  "  How  could  you  come  away  so  soon  ? 
And  with  such  a  dress  !  Weren't  the  young 
men  all  wild  to  dance  with  you  ? " 

"Oh,  in  New  York,  Aunt  Ester?  I 
thought  you  were  up  to  date.  Perhaps  if  I 
were  married  some  one  might  take  a  fancy  to 
me.  However,  it  doesn't  matter  much.  I 
don't  fancy  any  of  them.  There  is  some 
thing  so  *  painful-duty  '-like  about  them. 
Wild  to  dance  with  me  !  Why,  if  they  had 
a  lot  of  little  pink  angels  down  from  Para 
dise " 

"  Alma,"  requested  Mrs.  Sevenbanks, 
"  be  moderate." 

"  Anyway,  I  hate  New  York  !  "  the  girl 
24 


went  on,  exactly  as  she  had  spoken  in  the 
carriage.  "  Aunt  Ester,  do  you  never  long 
for  the  old  days  ?  Don't  you  remember  the 
good  times  we  had  down  there  ? — the  dances 
at  the  legation,  the  balls  at  the  President's 
palace,  the  long  room  with  canvased  floor 
and  spangles  sprinkled  over  it  to  make  it 
gay,  the  old-fashioned  chandeliers  with  thou 
sands  of  candles,  the  band  that  played  and 
played,  and  the  suppers  in  the  balconies,  the 
champagne  and  all  the  lovely  speeches  and 
the  waltz,  waltz,  waltz,  and  the  danza  all 
night  long  till  the  sun  came  up  over  the 
mountains  !  Oh,  to  go  back  seven  years 
and  have  it  all  over  again — at  fifteen  !  " 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  looked  straight  before 
her  and  made  no  sound.  The  suggestion  of 
a  fifteen-year-old  girl  at  a  ball  may  have 
been  too  appalling.  Mrs.  Harding,  on  the 
other  hand,  regarded  their  niece  with  sym 
pathetic  expression.  Three  consecutive  cups 
of  good  black  coffee  had  made  her  eyes 
shine.  She  also  could  remember  happy 
hours  under  equatorial  skies — days  of  sun 
splendor,  nights  of  star  glory. 
25 


'g  a^arriage 


"  It  is  really  tame  up  here,  Aunt  Ester," 
the  girl  went  on.  "  I  don't  wonder  it  broke 
poor  papa's  heart  when  he  was  recalled. 
Half  the  time  —  I  mean  six  months  of  the 
twelve  —  everything  is  unreal,  artificial  —  heat 
and  light  and  everything  else.  To-night  at 
the  Claytons'  there  was  a  man  just  up  from 
the  Argentine  —  exiled  from  some  country  — 
and  he  was  telling  me  how  he  got  away.  It 
brought  back  old  recollections  —  especially 
that  last  night  at  the  palace  —  the  night  be 
fore  papa  got  that  abominable  cablegram 
from  Washington.  I  could  see  the  lights 
and  hear  the  mazurka  that  the  band  played 
in  the  alcove.  .  . 

"  O  —  oh  !  "  Her  Aunt  Ester  leaned  for 
ward  with  intense  black  eyes.  "  You  re 
member  that  ball  ?  It  was  fine  !  You  had 
a  good  time,  I  think." 

"  Of  course  I  did.  It  was  there  I  danced 
so  much  with  the  attache  from  —  from  Bo 
livia,  with  red  hair.  He  came  up  this  way, 
smiling  and  romantic  —  "  she  rose  to  illus 
trate  —  "  and  bowed  away  down,  down, 
down.  I  don't  see  how  he  ever  kept  his 
26 


balance.  He  had  been  drinking  the  health 
of  the  President  of  the  United  States  in 
about  twenty  cognacs.  Then  we  started  off 
so— la-ah,  1'la,  1'la,  1'la." 

The  golden  sweep  of  chiffon,  the  memory 
of  the  sensuous  music,  the  familiar  motion, 
seemed  suddenly  to  go  to  the  elder  lady's 
head.  She  sprang  up  with  a  jubilant  cry 
that  drew  itself  out  into  the  continuous  toot- 
tut-toot  of  horn  and  clarinet,  and  in  her  hor 
ribly  high-heeled  boots  she  danced. 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks's  gracious  mask  of  suf 
ferance  had  remained  unaltered  through  all, 
but  presently  chancing  to  turn  her  eyes  away 
to  the  door,  that  lady  was  visibly  startled  to 
observe  the  butler  standing  in  the  arch,  his 
eyes  riveted  on  a  Corot  on  the  opposite 
wall.  He  had,  naturally,  seen  nothing  else. 
His  voice  was  suave.  "  Beg  pardon, 
ma'am ;  shall  I  remove  the  coffee  things, 
ma'am  ?  " 

And  Mrs.  Sevenbanks  made  answer,  with 
carven  countenance  :  "  Yes,  James,  and  as 
we  shall  retire  at  once  you  may  wait  and  put 
out  the  lights." 

27 


CHAPTER  II 

SPANISH    BLOOD 

MRS.  HARDING  had  had  her  coffee  and 
was  down  for  late  breakfast,  English  style, 
when  her  hostess  appeared  next  morning. 
Her  mood  was  as  cheerful  as  the  elaborate 
old-rose  house  gown  she  wore.  She 
hastened  to  inform  her  sister-in-law  that 
Alma  had  gone  out  with  Alice  Dow,  "  in 
that  reprehensible  American  fashion,  without 
an  older  person." 

"  I  desired  that  she  should  go  without 
me,"  said  Mrs.  Sevenbanks,  "  for  I  wished 
to  speak  with  you  about  her." 

"  Why  don't  you  let  her  get  married  ?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Harding.  "  She  is  twenty-one, 
isn't  she  ?  " 

"  In  her  twenty-third  year,"  said  Mrs. 
Sevenbanks,  with  patient  stiffness.  She  al 
ways  felt  stiff  of  a  morning  until  after  taking 
29 


her  tea.  It  was  a  sort  of  eye-opener  that 
she  absolutely  required,  and  except  on  rare 
occasions  was  taken  in  her  own  room. 
This  morning  was  one  of  the  rare  occasions. 
She  had  slept  rather  late,  and  she  remem 
bered  Mrs.  Harding  had  odd  ways  of  early 
rising. 

"  Ave  Maria!  "  was  Mrs.  Harding's  next 
remark.  "  That  is  much  too  old  ;  but  you 
may  have  found  some  one  you  think  suit 
able." 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  smiled.  "  I  am  afraid 
your  visit  to  Chicago  has  crowded  many 
things  from  your  memory ;  for  instance, 
some  of  Alma's  characteristics.  You  must 
remember  she  has  Spanish  blood  in  her 
veins  ;  she  is  hard  to  control." 

"Of course,"  said  Mrs.  Harding;  "that 
is  only  natural,  since  her  mother,  who  was 
my  only  sister,  was  the  child  of  a  Spanish 
gentleman  and  an  English  lady." 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  ignored  this  recital  of 
ancestry.  "  You  know,"  she  urged,  mildly, 
"  you  and  I  are  alike  responsible." 

"  But  what  do  you  expect  me  to  do  ? " 


'£  Carriage 


cried  Mrs.  Harding.  "  I  have  no  settled 
home  —  I  am  on  the  wing.  Do  you  wish  me 
to  take  her  with  me  to  Paris  —  or  Caracas  ? 
I  am  not  sure  to  which  place  I  shall  go  next. 
It  would  be  easier  to  marry  her  off  in  Cara 
cas." 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  shuddered.  "  I  could 
hardly  consent  to  that.  Alma  is  an  Amer 
ican,  and  should  marry  one  of  her  own  coun 
trymen." 

"  One  of  these  Yankees  —  these  pale-eyed, 
white-blooded  egotists  ?  My  husband  was 
at  least  an  Englishman." 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  reflected.  The  tea  was 
beginning  to  take  effect  ;  she  would  soon 
feel  able  to  smile.  "  Shall  you  mind  if  I 
speak  very  frankly  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  you  always  do  that." 

"  Well,  then,  my  dear  friend,  my  idea  is 
that  we  have  hardly  cooperated  as  we  should 
in  this  matter.  Alma  has  certainly  given  me 
some  bad  moments  of  late.  She  is  of  age, 
and  at  any  time  can  act  according  to  her  own 
judgment,  or  rather  impulse.  Were  it  not 
for  her  birth  and  breeding  I  should  feel 


'0  Carriage 


actual  terror  when  she  displays  capricious 
and  erratic  ways,  describing  the  life  she  led 
in  that  barbarous  South  American  republic, 
and  disparaging  the  United  States.  I  often 
think  it  a  misfortune  that  my  brother  ever 
went  down  there  —  apart  from  the  terrible  in 
justice  of  his  being  recalled.  I  do  not  refer 
to  anything  connected  with  his  marriage,  for 
of  course  your  sister  Dolores  was  a  lovely 
woman.  But  it  does  seem  as  if  there  were  a 
fatal  fascination  for  some  persons  in  the  first 
taste  of  that  wild  and  lawless  life." 

"  Perhaps  you  wouldn't  think  it  so  lawless 
if  you  lived  there  a  while,"  said  Mrs.  Hard 
ing.  "  There  is  plenty  of  law." 

"  Yes  ?  But  you  understand  what  I 
mean.  .  .  .  What  I  was  going  to  say 
last  night  at  the  Claytons'  —  you 
certainly  know  who  the  Claytons  are  ?  I 
am  speaking  now  in  confidence  —  I  should 
not  like  her  to  suppose  I  remarked  it  —  last 
night  Alma  sat  out  at  least  two  dances  talk 
ing  to  a  dark-skinned,  large,  odd-looking 
man,  a  General  Somebody  or  other,  she  tells 
me,  but  most  unpresentable  and  awkward." 
32 


"  I  thought  she  sat  out  the  dances  because 
her  ankle  was  hurt." 

"  But  there  were  others — the  right  kind  of 
men — that  she  might  have, talked  to.  Be 
sides,  her  ankle  was  not  so  bad  or  she  would 
not  have  felt  so  cheerful  when  we  returned 
home." 

"  Cheerful  !  Oh,  you  mean  because  we 
were  dancing  and  singing?  " 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  was  silent.  A  very  faint 
pink  tinged  her  face.  She  remembered  how 
the  butler  had  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"  And  this  large,  dark  somebody  or  other," 
suggested  Mrs.  Harding — "perhaps  he  is 
very  rich." 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  sighed.  "  I  doubt  it. 
I  believe  she  said  he  was  an  exile." 

"  Exiles  sometimes  carry  away  millions 
with  them.  You  are  afraid  she  has  fallen  in 
love  with  him  ?  " 

"In  love?"  repeated  Mrs.  Sevenbanks, 
with  a  shudder.  "  I  doubt  if  the  man  be 
not  some  half-breed.  Our  new  posses 
sions  are  responsible  for  these  alarming  evi 
dences." 

3  35 


ttr*$  Carriage 


"  Part  Indian,  you  mean  ?  But  if  he  is  so 
unattractive,  what  do  you  fear  ?  " 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  compressed  her  lips. 
"  Ugly  men  fascinate  like  snakes.  How 
ever,  it  is  not  a  case  for  argument,  but  for 
action.  I  rely  on  you,  my  dear  Ester,  to  as 
sist  me  in  discouraging  these  wild  ideas  of 
Alma's  about  going  back  to  those  savage 
countries.  Believe  me,  the  day  of  her  wed 
ding  will  see  a  great  load  lifted  from  my 
mind." 

"  The  day  of  any  girl's  wedding  usually 
has  that  kind  of  effect  on  her  relatives,  now 
adays,"  Mrs.  Harding  reflected,  aloud.  "  I 
will  try  to  do  what  I  can  to  meet  your 
wishes  —  if  you  will  give  me  an  idea  how  to 
begin.  When  she  returns  shall  I  read  her 
a  lecture  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not  ;  that  would  be  unwise. 
Only  —  forgive  my  frankness  —  if  you  would 
not  encourage  her  again  as  you  did  last 
night." 

"  I  shall  try  to  remember." 

"  Thank  you.  Another  thing  ;  you  might, 
if  she  alludes  to  him,  express  your  disap- 
34 


'£  Carriage 


proval  of  the  presumption  of  the  person  I 
have  told  you  about  -  " 
.  "  Yes  ?  " 

"  —  and  suggest  that  you  look  forward 
with  solicitude  to  her  marriage  with  some 
civilized  Christian  gentleman  in  proper  po 
sition  to  become  her  husband.  You  know 
as  well  as  I  how  Alma  is  situated  in  regard 
to  money.  My  poor  brother  left  hardly 
anything.  I  have  this  and  my  country  house 
and  a  little  other  property  —  a  comfortable 
life  income.  But  in  most  of  the  estate  I 
have  only  a  life  interest.  I  can  do  com 
paratively  very  little  for  her.  You  know 
just  what  you  can  do." 

"  Oh,  dear,  yes.  I  have  been  gambling 
terribly  —  in  the  g.  h's." 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  started  and  flushed. 
"  Pray  do  not  let  any  one  hear  you." 

"  No,  of  course  not  ;  but  it  is  true.  They 
are  h's,  you  know  —  such  fascinating  h's  ! 
There  is  nothing  like  them  in  America  ;  and 
that  is  fortunate,  I  suppose.  Not  even 
bridge  whist  -  " 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  rose.     "  Let  us  go  up- 
35 


ter'g  Carriage 


stairs,"  she  said  ;  "  I  have  some  directions  to 
give  the  seamstress." 

With  Alma  returned  her  friend,  Alice 
Dow,  a  young  lady  for  whom  Mrs.  Seven- 
banks  always  had  a  cordial  welcome.  The 
cordiality  might  have  had  root  in  the  knowl 
edge  that  Miss  Dow's  cousin  had  married  a 
very  decent  earl,  and  that  the  Dows  them 
selves  were  financially  solid,  if  unpretentious. 
Alice  was  rather  plain,  large-featured,  large- 
boned.  She  was  quite  tall,  and  would  make 
a  fine-looking  woman  if  she  ever  acquired 
flesh  enough.  There  was  self-assertion 
about  her  that  compelled  admiration. 

Alma's  aunts  were  both  far  back  in  the 
drawing-room  when  the  girls  came  in.  Mrs. 
Sevenbanks  was  writing  a  letter  ;  Mrs.  Hard 
ing  was  at  the  piano  trying  to  remember  a 
Persian  lullaby  she  had  heard  in  Chicago. 
She  deserted  the  instrument  to  converse  with 
the  young  ladies.  The  Claytons'  dinner 
dance  of  the  night  before  seemed  to  interest 
her. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  was  not  there,"  said  Miss 
Dow.  "  Alma  tells  me  there  was  a  foreigner 
36 


'g  Carriage 


who  told  weird  stories  in  broken,  not  to 
say  shattered,  English,  and  whom  everybody 
seemed  to  take  for  a  cannibal  or  a  bandit." 

"  Was  he  handsome  ?  "  inquired  Mrs. 
Harding,  naively. 

"  About  as  beautiful  as  a  totem  pole," 
Alma  replied.  She  noticed  that  her  Aunt 
Sevenbanks  had  stopped  writing  to  listen. 

Alice  Dow  laughed.  "  He  is  an  Indian, 
then  ?  " 

"  He  has  some  Indian  blood,  perhaps.  I 
forget  which  tribe  —  -we  spoke  of  several.  It 
might  be  Botocudo,  or  Bugre." 

"  Are  not  all  those  tribes  cannibals  ?  " 
came  Mrs.  Sevenbanks's  cool,  sweet  inquiry 
across  the  room. 

"  Oh,  yes,  indeed,"  put  in  Mrs.  Harding. 
"  The  terrible  anthropophagi  -  " 

"  He  seemed  very  fat  and  sleek,"  said 
Alma,  indifferently.  She  began  to  think 
that  her  aunts  had  been  discussing  her  and 
da  Veiga.  A  rebellious  sort  of  disgust  came 
over  her.  Why  should  she  not  listen  to  a 
man  because  he  was  of  another  nation 
ality  —  perhaps  race  ?  What  difference  did 
37 


it  make  to  her  if  he  were  part  Indian? 
What  interest  had  she  in  him  beyond  the 
fact  that  he  reminded  her  of  days  long  past ; 
of  life  in  another  zone,  under  a  bluer  sky 
and  in  happier  companionship  ;  of  her  dear 
father,  of  the  old  home,  of  the  mother  who 
had  died  while  she  was  yet  a  child  ;  of  all 
the  impressions  of  life  in  youth — perhaps  of 
something  else  back  in  those  long-gone  days 
— something  vague,  fine,  unacknowledged 
even  in  her  own  heart ;  something  that  par 
took  of  the  delicacy  and  freshness  of  that 
saving  grace  of  the  North,  the  northern 
Spring  ? 

Mrs.  Harding  spoke  suddenly  and  irrele 
vantly.  "In  Paris,  during  my  last  visit,  I 
met  many  South  Americans.  I  don't  know, 
Alma,  whether  you  remember  Vasquez — 
Roberto  Vasquez.  He  was  a  writer — a  poet, 
you  know — and  also,  I  think,  a  lawyer  and 
once  an  attache.  Very  handsome,  with  per 
fect  features,  and  tall  and  straight.  You 
ought  to  remember  him.  He  came  to  the 
legation.  Your  father  liked  him.  They 
tried  to  engage  him  to  that  terribly  homely 
38 


'g  Carriage 


girl  that  —  I  forget  her  name.  He  was  in 
Paris,  still  as  handsome  as  ever,  and  not 
married  yet.  You  don't  remember  him  ? 
But  then  you  were  so  young." 

"  Yes,"  said  Alma,  slowly,  "  I  remember 
Senor  Vasquez."  She  paused  a  moment. 
"  Why  do  you  look  at  me  ?  Do  I  seem 
pale  ?  This  ankle  is  going  to  bother  me, 
after  all." 


39 


CHAPTER  III 

ALMA  IS  SURPRISED 

WHEN  Alma  and  her  friend  had  gone  up 
stairs  before  luncheon  Miss  Dow  shrugged 
her  shoulders  and  laughed  softly  as  she  ob 
served  :  "  You  hadn't  fully  realized  the  seri 
ousness,  had  you  ? " 

"Of what?  " 

"  Of  your  little  flirtation  with  the  canni 
bal  last  night." 

"  I  suppose  I  hadn't,  though  Aunt  Louise 
did  say  something  about  it  in  the  carriage, 
coming  home.  One  would  think  I  wanted 
to  abduct  him.  Sometimes  I  fancy  I  might 
as  well  marry  some  ordinary  brute  of  a  man 
and  escape." 

"You  wouldn't  prefer  an  extraordinary 
brute  ?  " 

"  Such  a  preference  could  be  easily  satis 
fied,  I  imagine,  if  I  did." 


'g  Carriage 


"  Don't  get  bitter,  my  dear.  Look  at  me  ; 
I'm  twenty-five  —  nearly  twenty-five  —  and 
single.  I  will  be  a  hundred  and  twenty-five 
and  single  before  I'll  take  any  desperate  step. 
I'd  rather  be  bored  than  tortured." 

"  Suppose  you  were  both  ?  " 

"  Nobody  ever  is." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have  been  ;  that  is,  bored  and 
tortured  by  turns.  You  know  how  Aunt 
Sevenbanks  is  —  and  then  she  sends  for  Aunt 
Ester  ;  and  then,  well,  poor  Aunt  Ester,  she 
would  like  to  please  me  all  the  time,  and  how 
can  she  ?  This  morning,  while  I  was  out, 
Aunt  Sevenbanks  simply  filled  her  up  to  the 
ears  with  her  painful  duty  —  I'm  sure  it's  a 
painful  duty  —  toward  me.  She  will  begin  to 
work  on  me  presently.  She  has  begun  al 
ready,  in  fact  —  about  the  anthropophagi." 

"  Why  not  get  her  off  by  herself  and  have 
a  confidential  talk  ?  That  is  what  I  should 
do." 

"  Aunt  Louise  allows  no  opportunity  for 
that." 

Alice  Dow  was  arranging  her  hair  before 
the  mirror.  "  You  should  create  an  oppor- 
42 


'g  Carriage 


tunity  —  may  I  help  myself  to  a  hairpin  or 
two  ?  Thanks  !  —  yes,  create  an  opportunity. 
You  are  altogether  too  childlike,  soft  and  un 
resisting  and  pliable.  People  can  do  what 
they  please  with  you." 

"  You  are  very  much  mistaken  if  you  think 
so,"  said  Alma,  angrily  ;  "  I  have  a  very 
strong  will  of  my  own." 

"  You  think  you  have.  Now,  don't  get 
vexed.  I  tell  you  it  is  true.  You  haven't 
bone  enough  in  your  composition,  backbone 
or  any  other  kind  of  bone.  Look  at  your 
wrists.  What  you  have  are  very  pretty,  but 
what  use  are  they  ?  You  can't  play  the  piano  ; 
you  are  not  a  success  at  the  violin.  You 
never  won  a  game  of  tennis,  much  less  golf. 
I  heard  a  man  refer  to  you  as  the  boneless 
maid.  Of  course  he  admired  your  beauty." 

«  What  man  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  was  Frank  Sands." 

"  Why,  he  is  more  idiotic  than  I  thought 
he  was." 

"  Oh,  it  wasn't  so  bad.  You  are  delicious 
to  look  at.  But  you  haven't  resisting  power. 
Look  at  my  wrists.  Do  you  think  any  one 
43 


'g  Damage 


will  ever  trouble  my  peace  of  mind?  "  She 
pushed  back  her  narrow  sleeve  cuffs  and  re 
garded  her  angular  forearms  with  sincere  pride. 

"  You  wouldn't  fight,  would  you  ?  "  said 
Alma,  half  induced  to  laugh. 

"  I  might,"  said  Miss  Dow,  just  as  the 
maid  tapped  on  the  door  to  inform  them 
that  luncheon  was  ready. 

As  the  two  descended  the  stairs  together 
Alma  whispered,  nervously  :  "If  you  notice 
you  will  see  how  Aunt  Ester  has  been  pre 
pared  for  action." 

"  Primed  and  loaded,  eh  ?  " 

But  no  tell-tale  indication  was  discernible 
throughout  the  meal.  Soon  afterward  Miss 
Dow  took  her  leave  with  a  reassuring  glance. 
Presently  Mrs.  Sevenbanks  telephoned  for 
her  carriage  and  announced  her  intention  of 
going  out.  Would  Mrs.  Harding  accom 
pany  her  ?  Mrs.  Harding  thought  she  would 
better  stay  and  visit  with  Alma. 

They  agreed  to  go  up  to  Mrs.  Harding's 

room,  because  Alma  could  then  inspect  some 

new  gowns  her  aunt  had  brought  from  Paris. 

Two  of  them  had  been  worn  once  in  Chicago, 

44 


'£  Carriage 


the  lady  declared,  and  were  of  course  ruined. 
One  could  only  drive  out  in  a  closed  carri 
age  there,  she  said.  And  besides,  there  was 
the  huge  chimney  of  a  power-house  but  a 
block  away  from  the  North  Side  mansion  at 
which  she  had  stopped. 

One  of  the  other  gowns  was  too  small  for 
her.  She  had  never  worn  it  ;  she  thought 
she  would  give  it  to  Alma.  It  was  a  dinner 
dress  of  scarlet  chiffon  and  satin.  Alma 
thanked  her  and  hated  to  deprive  her  of  it, 
but  she  insisted,  and  even  made  her  put  the 
bodice  on  to  see  what  alterations  were  neces 
sary  and  if  they  could  be  made  by  Mrs. 
Sevenbanks's  seamstress. 

"  And  now,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  you  see 
I  wanted  to  have  a  talk  with  you  while  your 
Aunt  Louise  is  out.  For  it  seems  to  me 
you  are  not  perfectly  happy  with  her." 

"  Did  she  tell  you  I  was  not  happy  ?  " 
the  girl  asked,  perversely. 

"  Oh,  I  can  see." 

"  She  talked  with  you  about  me  this  morn 
ing  ?  "  said  Alma. 

"She  certainly  did  speak  to  me,"  Mrs. 
45 


Harding  acknowledged.  "  And  I  asked  her 
if  she  desired  me  to  take  you  to  Paris  or 
Caracas." 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Ester  !  Would  you — will 
you  take  me  to  Venezuela  ?  Oh,  how 
happy  I  should  be  to  get  away  from  New 
York  !  I  don't  care  a  bit  for  it.  I  don't 
care  for  society.  I  don't  seem  to  belong 
to  it." 

"  But,  my  dear  child,  you  must !  You 
see  it  is  necessary.  How  else  would  you 
ever  get  properly  married  if  you  didn't?" 

"  Why  should  I  get  properly  married  ?  I 
don't  see  the  necessity." 

"  But  consider  what  a  woman  is  at  forty — 
single  and  thin — you  will  probably  be  thin — 
with  the  lines  coming  around  her  neck  and  a 
constant  need  to  wear  things  to  cover  them  ; 
afraid  to  laugh  because  the  marks  around  the 
mouth  get  deep,  with  always  the  tremendous 
expense  for  facial  massage,  and  no  husband 
to  pay  the  bill." 

"  The  men  that  I  meet  at  the  Claytons' 
and  elsewhere,"  said  Alma,  "  are  very  tire 
some — and  very  insincere.  I  used  to  think 
46 


it  was  only  sincere  people  that  tired  one,  but 
I  was  mistaken.  My  worldly  knowledge  is 
increasing.  These  men,  you  know,  that 
make  sweet  speeches  to  one's  face  and  when 
her  back  is  turned  call  her  names " 

"  Names  ?  " 

"  The  boneless  maid,  for  instance.  Isn't 
that  a  nice  title  ?  " 

"  Why,  it  seems  to  me  there  was  a  poem 
your  grandmamma  used  to  be  very  fond  of 
with  that  title.  The  boneless  maid — or 
child — or  it  might  have  been  painless — or 
sinless,  I  am  not  sure.  Perhaps  the  sinless 
something." 

Alma  was  not  appeased.  "  I  may  be  alto 
gether  lacking  in  bone,"  she  said  ;  "  Alice 
Dow  said  so.  All  I  know  is  that  life  is  a 
bore  most  of  the  time,  at  least  when  you 
can't  have  any  ideas  of  your  own." 

"  Ideas  of  your  own  are  like  babies,"  said 
Mrs.  Harding  ;  "  they  are  all  right  if  you 
keep  them  quiet." 

"  I  should  be  perfectly  happy,  Aunt  Es 
ter,  if  you  would  take  me  to  Caracas.  Why 
can't  you  ?  Only  to  be  on  horseback  once 
47 


'g  Carriage 


more,  galloping  along  beautiful  mountain 
roads  at  sunrise,  breathing  the  delicious  air 
off  the  hill  slopes,  hearing  such  melody  out 
of  the  forests,  smelling  such  perfume  from 
the  orange  groves  ;  climbing  steep  turns  of 
path  and  suddenly  coming  along  precipices 
to  hear  the  roar  of  waterfalls  ;  fording  streams, 
swollen  yellow  rivers  or  crystal  mountain 
brooks  ;  stopping  in  the  shade  to  scoop  up 
delicious  drinks  with  ajicara.  Do  you  re 
member  the  journeys  we  had,  papa  and  you 
and  I  and  Mr.  Harding,  off  to  the  mines  or 
down  to  the  banana  jWtfJ  on  the  coast  ?  our 
rides  through  the  great  forests,  where  the 
monkeys  in  the  tree-tops  roared  with  the 
cold  at  daybreak  when  we  were  camping  out, 
and  the  fun  we  had  cooking  our  coffee  over 
three  logs,  and  the  night  in  the  thatched  hut 
without  walls,  where  the  moonlight  blazed 
silver  fire  and  the  nightingale  sang  in  the 
thicket  along  the  river  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  do    remember,"   said    Mrs. 

Harding,  drying  her  eyes  ;    "  I  do  remem 

ber  those  happy  days,  gone  forever.     I  wish 

we  could  live  them  over,  Alma  ;  but   it   is 

48 


'g  Carriage 


impossible.  I  should  be  glad  to  take  you 
with  me,  but  your  Aunt  Louise  would  never 
consent.  She  told  me  so.  She  says  you 
must  give  up  the  idea.  You  must  marry  a 
New  York  gentleman,  she  says.  That  is  very 
hard."  Her  eyes  were  full  again.  "  That  is 
very  hard.  But  I  would  never  dare  oppose 
your  Aunt  Louise.  You  must  give  up  the 
idea.  Ah,  life  is  too  sad  !  It  is  fortunate 
that  we  do  not  have  to  live  forever."  She 
dried  her  eyes  once  more  and  took  up  a 
gold-embroidered  waist  from  the  floor. 
"  The  hooks  on  this  bodice  are  simply  vile," 
she  said  ;  "  I  cannot  make  them  hook  at  all. 
And  the  belt  is  rotten." 

"  Aunt  Ester,"  Alma  persisted,  "  you  say 
Aunt  Louise  says  I  must  marry  a  New  York 
man.  Do  you  think  she  has  any  one  in 
particular  in  mind  ?  " 

"  No,"  Mrs.  Harding  sighed,  "  I  cannot 
say  that." 

"  It  wouldn't  be  a  bit   of  use,"   the  girl 

went  on.    "  I  am  not  going  to  marry.     There 

was  a  time  when  I   had   foolish   dreams  of 

some  one  who  would  be  brave  and  true  and 

49 


'$  Carriage 


poetic.  I  have  found  out  that  it  is  all  non 
sense." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Harding,  submissively, 
"  but  then  the  best  thing  is  to  please  your 
Aunt  Louise  as  much  as  possible  and  avoid 
irritating  her.  It  seems  she  was  irritated 
last  night  because  of  that  man  —  what  did 
you  say  his  name  was  ?  " 

Alma  was  prevented  from  replying  by  the 
approach  at  the  half-open  door  of  a  maid, 
who  brought  the  butler's  salver  with  a  letter 
for  Mrs.  Harding.  Alma,  moving  a  little 
to  let  the  girl  pass  her,  saw  beside  the  letter 
a  card  decorated  with  something  that  might 
be  a  coronet.  A  moment  later  Mrs.  Hard 
ing  read  aloud  :  "  Geraldina."  She  quickly 
broke  the  seal.  "  Say  that  I  will  be  down 
soon,"  she  instructed  the  servant,  and  hand 
ed  the  letter  to  Alma.  "  Only  fancy  !  News 
from  home  —  that  is,  from  friends  now  over 
in  Paris.  How  charming  !  I  suppose  I 
must  dress."  She  caught  up  a  yellow  crepe 
scarf  and  held  it  to  her  cheek.  "  My  face 
not  steamed  yet,  and  —  black  as  a  buzzard. 
Such  a  pleasing  letter  from  Severino  Gon- 
50 


Carriage 


zalez.  This  Geraldina  —  a  count  —  must  be 
from  Brazil.  What  is  his  other  name  ? 
da  -  " 

"  Da  Veiga,"  read  Alma,  slowly.  "  Why, 
Aunt  Ester,  it  must  be  the  cannibal.  I 
didn't  know  he  was  a  count." 


51 


CHAPTER  IV 

DA    VEIGA    CALLS 

"REALLY!"  Mrs.  Sevenbanks  could  put 
more  into  the  three  syllables  than  any  other 
woman  in  New  York.  Mrs.  Harding  had 
been  telling  her  about  Senor  da  Veiga's  call, 
his  excellent  letter  of  introduction  and  his 
very  proper  behavior.  Mrs.  Sevenbanks 
had  looked  at  the  card  and  smiled.  "  He 
called  with  the  letter  ?  .  Alma  saw 

him?" 

"  I  sent  for  her  to  come  down.  It  seems 
to  me  there  was  no  harm ;  besides,  for  a  girl 
there  is  no  man  more  interesting  than  the 
prohibited  man.  I  do  not  think  you  need 
have  the  slightest  concern  about  this  Count 
Geraldina." 

"  If  he  is  a  South  American,  and  an  exile, 
how  does  he  come  to   be  a  count?"    Mrs. 
Sevenbanks  inquired. 
53 


"  Why,  sometimes  titles  are  conferred  in 
Europe  on  South  Americans  of  vast  wealth." 

"  You  mean  they  buy  them.  And  you 
think  he  possesses  vast  wealth  ?  " 

"  No,  I  do  not,"  said  Mrs.  Harding, 
with  candor.  "  I  think  he  has  no  more  than 
enough  to  live  on.  It  seems  he  has  not  been 
long  in  New  York.  He  at  first  stopped  at 
a  hotel,  he  says,  but  now  has  his  own  bach 
elor  apartments  in  Madison  avenue.  I  be 
lieve  he  would  amuse  Alma  very  much,  and 
I  advise  you  to  let  me  present  him  to  you 
and  to  receive  him  kindly  if  he  calls.  Others 
will  receive  him,  you  know.  Besides,  he 
is  really  not  bad  looking.  It  is  only  a  mat 
ter  of  tan." 

"  He  seems  thoroughly  impossible,"  ob 
jected  Mrs.  Sevenbanks,  "  but  it  may  be 
that  your  view  of  the  matter  is  not  an  un 
wise  one." 

In  this  way  she  gave  a  grudging  permis 
sion,  and  da  Veiga  was  brought  under  her 
personal  inspection  a  few  days  later.  She 
was  polite  to  him,  but  she  did  not  forget  to 
inquire  again  about  the  title.  Da  Veiga, 
54 


'g  s^artiage 


seated  before  her,  of  erect,  imposing  figure, 
over  which  his  Prince  Albert  coat  seemed 
buttoned  with  difficulty,  with  mustache  and 
imperial  waxed  into  diabolical  points,  a  smile, 
as  gracious  and  fatuous  as  that  of  an  Indian 
idol,  distending  his  cheeks,  enlightened  her 
after  his  own  peculiar  fashion  : 

"  Until  now,  madama,  I  'ave  not  make 
up  my  mind.  Gradiil  'ave  I  thought  'ow 
in  my  own  country  my  father  did  say,  c  I 
will  be  no  more  the  Conde!  And  'e  did 
fling  forth  the  flag  and  did  cry,  c  I  am 
republicano  !  '  and  with  three  times  the  viva 
in  'is  throat,  bang  !  'e  did  fall  down  dead  ! 
Then  I,  who  was  in  'is  place  Conde,  I  did 
say  the  same;  I  did  crj^Viva  la  republica!' 
But  now,  madama,  you  see,  it  may  be  in 
New  York  if  I  am  not  one  conde,  what  I 
am?" 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  took  her  cue  from  this 
ingenuous  confession.  She  would  know 

D 

something  about  his  source  of  income. 

"  A  title,"  she  remarked,  urbanely,  "  pre 
supposes    certain    hereditary     qualities    that 
should    merit   esteem.     One    does    well    to 
55 


'g  Carriage 


think  twice  before  dispensing  with  it.  Of 
course,  an  extremely  large  fortune  is  required 
to  maintain  a  title,  even  in  New  York." 

"  Ah,  that  is  it.  I  did  say  to  my  friends 
that  I  did  thank  them  for  their  vare  kind 
offer.  *  Motch  oblige,'  I  did  say  —  '  motch 
oblige,  my  dear  sirs.  I  will  not  to  be  senator.' 
You  see,  I  rather  make  another  million  or 
two  in  New  York.  I  place  my  concession 
and  I  sell  my  stock." 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  gazed  at  him  in  silence, 
her  grayish-blue,  impartial  eyes  studying  him 
from  the  white  scar  at  the  centre  of  his  fore 
head  to  the  rich  brown  under  his  skin. 
And  he  returned  her  gaze  with  the  same  in 
genuous,  Indian-idol  smile.  Perhaps  if  Mrs. 
Sevenbanks  had  put  up  her  glass  —  she  was 
very  slightly  near-sighted,  and  the  glass  was 
remarkably  strong  —  she  might  have  discov 
ered,  lurking  under  the  waxed  points  of  his 
mustache,  the  flicker  of  muscle  that  no 
human  countenance  has  ever  succeeded  in 
wholly  suppressing  —  the  flicker  that  gives 
the  lie  look. 

From  that  time  on  Mrs.  Sevenbanks 
56 


seemed  less  apprehensive.  During  the  days 
that  Mrs.  Harding  remained  at  the  house  da 
Veiga  called  frequently.  On  one  occasion, 
when  he  came  early,  Alma  entertained  him 
in  company  with  Alice  Dow.  When  he 
went  away  Miss  Dow  informed  her  friend 
that  she  had  been  reading  up  on  aboriginal 
tribes  of  the  Western  Continent.  "  The 
Buggries,"  she  said,  "  or  whatever  it  is " 

"  Boogray,"  corrected  Alma. 

"  Well,  whatever  it  is,  you  should  see  the 
pictures  of  them,  with  rings  in  their  noses, 
and  under  lips  propped  out  with  bits  of 
stone.  Oh,  they  are  delightful !  Now,  if 
this  particular  Bug " 

"  Oh,  what  has  the  poor  wretch  ever  done 
to  you?"  cried  Alma.  A  sudden  inexpli 
cable  pity  had  come  into  her  heart  for  the 
unfortunate,  uncouth  individual  who  had  sat 
so  ill  at  ease  in  her  aunt's  drawing-room  and 
still  had  seemed  so  loath  to  go  away.  Alice 
Dow  glanced  sharply  at  her. 

"You  alarm  me,"  she  said.  "Please 
don't  alarm  me  again.  Embrace  follows 
right  after  pity  in  the  poem,  you  remember." 
57 


'g  Carriage 


"  One  might  find  it  difficult  to  embrace 
such  dimensions,"  Alma  responded,  list 
lessly.  She  was  never  offended  at  Alice 
Dow.  As  for  da  Veiga,  she  still  pitied  him. 

The  next  time  he  came  there  were  others 
present,  and  she  was  pouring  tea.  Some  of 
the  guests  had  met  him  before,  and  appeared 
pleased  and  amused  at  the  second  meeting; 
others,  regarding  him  for  the  first  time, 
looked  as  if  they  were  not  quite  sure  whether 
or  not  to  follow  Mrs.  Sevenbanks's  lead. 
That  lady  was  thoroughly  courteous,  if  not 
cordial,  to  the  foreigner.  There  was  humil 
ity,  Alma  thought,  in  the  way  he  took  his 
leave,  saying,  "  I  did  not  exespect  to  found 
so  many  ladies  and  gentlemen.  I  did  come 
to  say  good-bye  to  Mrs.  Harding.  She  is 
one  vare  fine  lady.  I  will  come  to-morrow 
to  say  good-bye  to  'er." 

He  kept  his  word  next  day,  but  arrived 
too  late,  for  Mrs.  Harding,  who  was  going 
to  Washington,  had  just  driven  away  with 
Mrs.  Sevenbanks  to  the  station.  Alma, 
who  had  caught  cold  and  dared  not  go  out, 
was  at  home,  alone. 

58 


'£  Carriage 


"  I  was  preparing  to  be  awfully  dull, 
Count  Geraldina,"  she  said,  lightly,  "but 
you  will  brighten  me  up.  We  will  speak 
Spanish,  and  you  must  tell  me  some  of 
your  thrilling  stones  about  the  Paraguay 
War  and  the  frontier  battles.  You  will 
have  some  coffee,  will  you  not  ?  My  Aunt 
Ester  took  coffee  just  before  going.  She 
prefers  it.  Tea  is  for  sick  people,  she  says." 

Da  Veiga  drank  the  contents  of  the  cup 
with  a  solemn  face,  and  almost  at  one  swal 
low. 

"  She  is  one  vare  nice  lady,"  he  declared. 
"  When  you  write  to  'er  you  must  please 
give  most  respectful  and  cordially  regards." 
He  balanced  the  egg-shell  cup  on  his  knee. 
"  She  is  one  flower,"  he  pursued,  "  from 
those  fair  land.  Oh,  those  fair  land  !  Last 
night  in  my  dream  I  did  go  back  and  see  my 
'ome.  Ai  de  mi  !  I  did  wake  and  I  did 
weep.  Again  I  did  see  the  mountains  and 
the  rivers  wide  and  deep.  Then  in  my 
dream  I  did  look  far  down  and  I  did  see  the 
smoke  and  'ear  the  terrible  canone.  And  I 
did  found  the  diablos^  the  enemy,  all  around, 
59 


'£  Carriage 


and  all  their  guns  point  on  my.  They  take 
my  to  the  prison,  they  tie  my,  they  leave 
my.  I  know  what  they  say.  Next  morn 
ing  —  bang  !  shot  dead.  Oh,  my  God  ! 
They  set  bread  and  water  by  my  —  they 
leave  my  there.  Night  come.  I  pray, 
'  Oh,  mio  Dios  !  saved  my  !  '  I  work  my 
'ands  for  'ours.  Pretty  soon  —  bim  !  I 
break  the  rope.  I  untie  my  feet.  I  listen. 
No  sound.  Then  I  'ear  something  like 
some  one  ronca  —  the  man  they  did  put  to 
guard  my,  'e  did  sleep.  'E  —  what  you  call 
it  ?  —  'e  began  roncar.  I  creep  out.  I  take 
the  knife  from  'im.  I  creep  on.  The  next 
man  move  ;  I  take  'im  so  —  by  that  throat. 
'E  draw  the  knife  and  so  —  cut  my.  I  did 
stab  'imback.  'E  did  fall.  I  did  found  my 
'orse,  I  climb  on  'im.  I  ride  —  fast  —  fast  — 
oh,  my  poor  'orse  !  I  did  clasp  the  neck,  I 
did  kiss  —  I  did  spur  'im  on.  On  —  on  —  oh, 
mio  Dios  I  I  know  the  road;  a  league,  an 
other  league,  until  I  get  over  cross  the 
limites.  I  kiss,  I  baig  my  'orse,  I  put  my 
face  to  the  neck  —  'e  did  go  on  —  on  —  on  — 
then  'e  did  fall  —  bourn  —  dead  !  " 
60 


In  his  excitement  he  had  thrown  himself 
heavily  from  his  chair  on  his  knees,  forget 
ting  the  egg-shell  cup  and  saucer.  And 
these  now  lay  in  quite  small  pieces.  He 
looked  at  them  in  alarm. 

"  I  am  vare  sorry,"  he  began. 

"  Oh,  it  doesn't  matter  at  all,"  said  Alma. 

He  rose  slowly.  "  But  I  will  buy  one 
more  for  you,"  he  continued,  as  he  got  upon 
his  feet. 

"  Don't  think  of  it,"  she  insisted,  with 
an  amiable  smile.  "  I  was  so  interested ! 
How  terrible  it  is  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  ene 
mies  !  And  in  Paraguay  ! — the  Paraguayans 
are  rather  cruel,  I  think." 

"  They  are  diablos !  "  said  da  Veiga ; 
"  they  will  eat  their  fathers." 

The  flicker  that  Mrs.  Sevenbanks  had 
not  observed  was  around  his  mouth.  And 
Mrs.  Sevenbanks  had  not  observed  it,  how 
should  a  person  of  half  her  age  ? 

He  said  good-bye  and  went  away,  and 
Alma  made  haste  to  secure  all  the  frag 
ments  of  the  broken  cup  and  saucer. 
She  wondered  if  she  should  have  much 
61 


trouble  to  replace  the  cup,  and  thought, 
amusedly,  that  if  her  aunt  had  been 
there  it  would  have  been  interesting  to 
watch  her  face.  Not  that  the  slightest  vex 
ation  would  have  shown  itself,  but  on  the 
other  hand,  Mrs.  Sevenbanks  would  have 
perhaps  foregone  her  exquisite  good-form 
impulse  to  break  another,  in  order  to  prove 
to  her  guest  what  very  destructible,  trivial 
matters  such  tea-cups  are.  "  Ah,  well,  the 
poor  man  was  hardly  to  blame,"  she  de 
cided.  "  I  made  him  dramatic.  He  looked 
absurd  on  the  floor.  If  his  waistcoat  but 
tons  had  burst  off,  as  I  thought  they  were 
going  to 


62 


CHAPTER    V 

IN    THE    PARK 

THE  second  morning  following  Miss  Syl 
vester  received  a  letter  : 

MY   DEAR,   KIND    MlSS  ALMA! 

I  fill  vare  surry  to  say  that  as  yet  is  not 
chure  that  I  can  found  the  cop  I  did  break 
last  night.  I  do  not  know  if  I  have  time 
laft  to  go  to  the  store  to-day,  because  at  3 
p.  M.  I  shall  meet  some  gentleman  who  did 
ask  to  buy  some  stock  from  my.  Gradill  I 
have  thought  of  you,  no  sabiendo  porqu'e  I 
You  are  one  of  those  yong  lady  that  has 
mad  a  graty  impression  in  my  mind  !  I 
most  say  that  you  have  mad  me  to  thinke 
that  true  beuty  only  exesist  at  the  Latins 
blood.  Remember  that  I  will  alwes  be 
your  friend. 

By-in-by, 

Yours  respectfull  and  cordial, 
RUFINO  DA  VEIGA. 

63 


'£  Carriage 


She  had  been  feverish  all  night,  and  had 
been  awake  much  of  the  time  wondering  if 
she  should  be  well  enough  to  go  out  in  the 
morning  and  duplicate  the  broken  article, 
and  where  the  set  had  been  purchased.  As 
yet  she  believed  the  cup  had  not  been 
missed.  She  had  just  taken  some  very  strong 
coffee,  hoping  to  brace  her  tremulous  nerves 
and  hold  them  together,  but  they  seemed 
ready  to  fly  apart.  Now,  under  her  aunt's 
steadfast  gaze,  as  she  opened  and  read  the 
letter,  she  felt  herself  going  all  to  pieces. 
Something  in  her  back  seemed  to  give  way 
with  a  snap  ;  her  limbs  began  to  tremble, 
her  throat  muscles  were  knotted.  Suddenly 
she  began  to  laugh,  with  laughter  that  was 
strange  and  painful,  and  then  tears  were 
running  down  her  cheeks,  tears,  tears,  tears 
that  would  never  cease.  She  fell  back  on 
the  chair  helpless  and  conscious  of  her  help 
lessness. 

"  James,"    said   Mrs.   Sevenbanks,  "  my 

salts  —  in   the    drawing-room,    on    the    onyx 

pedestal,  I   think."     In  the  meantime   she 

was  putting  ice  water  on   the  girl's   temples 

64 


and  taking  charge  of  da  Veiga's  unfortunate 
communication. 

Later  on  when  Alma  had  recovered 
enough  to  go  up  to  her  room  and  lie  down, 
and  Mrs.  Sevenbanks  had  given  her  a  spoon 
ful  of  her  own  particular  remedy,  the  girl  in 
quired  what  had  become  of  the  letter. 

"  I  brought  it  up-stairs,  of  course,"  said 
Mrs.  Sevenbanks.  "  I  glanced  at  it — it 
seemed  proper  I  should  know  what  news 
you  had  received  to  affect  you  so  terribly. 
I  need  hardly  say  that  I,  too,  am  shocked. 
The  impertinence  of  the  man  is  beyond  con 
ception  ;  I  should  like,  by  the  way,  to  know 
what  he  has  reference  to  ;  he  speaks  of  some 
thing  that  was  broken.  He  surely  hasn't 
broken  anything  here  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  has,  Aunt  Louise,"  said 
Alma,  with  desperate  resolution.  She  drew 
a  long  breath.  "It  was — one  of  your  cups." 

"  One  of  my  cups  !  "  Mrs.  Sevenbanks 
turned  pale.  "  You  can't  mean  my  rive- 
o'clock-tea  set ! " 

Alma    nodded   weakly.     "  Of  course  he 

will  replace " 

5  65 


"Replace!  the  clumsy  monster !"  Mrs. 
Sevenbanks  trembled  with  anger.  <c  Re 
place  !  They  are  no  ordinary — they  were 
specially  imported  !  Alma,  this  is  really  too 
much !  To  destroy  my  property  and  to 
presume  to  address  a  letter  to  you  !  I  shall 
give  the  butler  orders.  It  is  all  your  Aunt 
Ester's  fault — all  her  fault  !  I  shall  write 
her  very  plainly." 

She  turned  and  went  trembling  from  the 
room.  Alma  lay  still  and  thought.  After 
a  while  she  got  up  and  saw  that  da  Veiga's 
letter,  properly  folded  in  its  envelope,  was 
on  the  dressing-case.  Her  aunt's  perfect 
breeding  was  always  to  be  relied  on.  She 
lay  down  again,  reproaching  herself  for  the 
thought  that  had  suggested  itself  that  Mrs. 
Sevenbanks  might  make  use  of  his  letter  to 
insult  him. 

The  medicine  she  had  taken  soothed  her, 
and  she  remained  in  bed  nearly  all  day. 
Just  before  dinner  she  discovered  that  da 
Veiga  had  called  and  left  cards,  and  had 
been  told  that  the  ladies  were  not  at  home. 
She  felt  sorry  for  him,  and  wished  she  had 
.  66 


tci:'£  Carriage 


not  impressed  him  as  "  kind."  Probably  he 
would  keep  on  calling  and  being  told  they 
were  not  at  home.  He  would  perhaps  think 
it  was  her  fault,  that  she  meant  to  be  unkind 
to  him  —  because  of  the  cup  !  Or  perhaps 
he  would  write  to  her  again,  and  her  aunt 
would  be  even  more  vexed.  She  wished 
vaguely  that  she  might  come  upon  him 
somewhere  outside  the  house  and  in  some 
way  be  able  to  give  him  a  hint  that  her  aunt 
was  very  rigid  in  her  notions  ;  or  perhaps 
lead  him  to  think  that  they  were  going  away, 
so  that  he  would  not  venture  to  call  again. 
At  all  events,  she  could  correct  his  possible 
idea  that  North  American  young  ladies  are 
more  emancipated  in  the  matter  of  receiving 
letters  from  gentlemen  than  Spanish-Ameri 
can  young  ladies. 

The  next  day  she  felt  very  much  better, 
and  as  it  was  a  delightful  Spring  morning 
she  started  out  soon  after  luncheon  to  call 
on  Alice  Dow.  She  had  gone  a  few  blocks 
from  her  home,  had,  in  fact,  arrived  at  an 
entrance  to  the  Park,  when  all  at  once  she 
saw  coming  slowly  toward  her  —  da  Veiga. 
67 


ter>£  Carriage 


He  did  not  seem  to  see  her,  and  she  stood 
irresolute  for  a  moment,  wondering  if  he 
could  be  on  his  way  to  call  at  her  home. 
But  presently  he  glanced  in  her  direction, 
quickened  his  steps  and  came  on  to  meet 
her.  He  had  a  parcel  in  each  hand  and 
could  only  make  one  of  his  low,  absurd  bows. 

"  I  did  wish  to  take  some  flowers,"  he 
began,  holding  out  to  her  the  parcel  in  his 
left  hand. 

"  Flowers  ?  Oh,  thank  you.  You  are 
very  kind."  They  were  American  beauty 
roses,  and  she  took  the  paper  from  them  and 
inhaled  their  fragrance  with  great  delight. 
There  were  few  people  on  the  Avenue,  and 
it  seemed  to  her  that  the  opportunity  she 
desired  had  come  quickly,  and  she  must 
make  the  most  of  it.  "  I  am  so  sorry,"  she 
said,  "  that  I  could  not  have  the  pleasure  of 
receiving  you.  But  you  know  we  are  very 
busy  now  ;  there  is  so  much  to  be  done  be 
fore  we  go  away  to  the  country.  We  are 
going  very  early  this  year  —  quite  immedi 
ately,  you  know."  Her  ears  were  begin 
ning  to  burn,  as  they  always  did  when  she 
68 


"  '/  did  wish  tn  take  sonic  flowers.'  lie  began 


'g  Carriage 


was  telling  anything  not  strictly  true.  At 
such  times  it  was  her  neck  that  blushed 
rather  than  her  cheeks. 

"  You  are  going  away  from  New  York  ?  " 
repeated  da  Veiga,  with  solemn  eyes.  "  But 
you  did  get  one  letter  I  did  write  to  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Alma,  hastily.  "  Yes,  and 
so,  you  see,  I  shall  be  saying  good-bye  to 
you  for  a  long  while,  as  I  shall  not  see  you 

again.     And  you  mustn't  mind  about  that 

ii 

cup  - 

"  I  did  found  one  cop,  and  I  did  bring," 
said  da  Veiga,  extending  the  other  parcel. 

She  hesitated.  If  her  aunt  were  partly 
pacified  !  .  .  .  The  desire  to  see  what  he 
had  brought  seized  her.  Hardly  any  one 
was  passing  near  them.  It  was  but  a  few 
steps  into  the  great  Park  —  under  a  tree 
whose  leaves  seemed  to  have  unfolded  in 
the  night  stood  a  bench  —  only  nurse-maids 
and  their  charges. 

"  Let  us  go  over  and  sit  down  for  a  mo 

ment,"  she  said.     "  I  have  been  ill,  and  am 

not  strong."     In  any  case  she  must  prevent 

his  calling  again.     "It  was  kind  of  you  to 

69 


'g  Carriage 


trouble  about  it,"  she  then  said,  opening  the 
paper  and  the  little  box  as  she  spoke.  "  It 
was  most  kind  of  you,"  she  repeated,  slowly 
and  falteringly,  as  her  eyes  fell  on  the  heavy 
German  china  he  had  selected.  "  My  aunt," 
she  went  on,  "  has  —  has  already  ordered  it 
replaced,  but  it  was  not  the  less  kind  of  you. 
And  this  is  very  pretty,  though  slightly 
larger." 

"  It  is  yours,"  said  da  Veiga,  solemnly. 

"  Oh,  thank  you."  She  gazed  alternately 
at  the  flowers  and  the  cup.  Could  she  go 
on  carrying  these  to  Alice  Dow's  ?  She 
dared  not  return  home,  for  da  Veiga  would 
beg  to  accompany  her.  If  she  carried  the 
cup  to  the  Dows'  Alice's  mother  would  have 
to  hear  the  story.  She  would  not  mind  if  it 
were  only  Alice  —  but  Alice's  mother  !  If 
she  could  get  away  from  da  Veiga  doubtless 
she  could  find  a  messenger  office  and  send 
the  cup  home,  addressed  to  herself.  But  in 
that  case  her  aunt  would  see  it  and  wonder. 
She  could  invent  no  possible  excuse.  It 
bore  not  the  slightest  resemblance  to  the 
precious  set. 

70 


'g  Carriage 


Da  Veiga  broke  the  silence,  that  had  be 
come  strange  and  noticeable.  "  You  will  go 
away  —  out  of  New  York  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  smiled.  "  You  know  every 
one  goes  away  from  New  York  in  the  Sum 
mer.  It  is  always  so  hot." 

"  And  to  where  will  you  go  ?  " 

"  To  the  country,"  said  Alma,  nervously. 
"  Quite  away  from  here.  Off  in  the  moun 
tains,  you  know." 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  will  be  in  the  moun 
tains,"  said  da  Veiga,  "  for  I  like  the  moun 
tains.  By-in-bye  I  will  come  to  see  you. 
You  will  give  my  the  directions  ?  " 

Alma  made  no  reply.  She  sat  very  still, 
gazing  across  —  far  across  —  at  a  lady  passing 
down  the  Avenue.  As  she  gazed  her  face 
was  growing  whiter  every  minute. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  demanded  da  Veiga,  with 
sudden  sharpness.  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  relaxing  in  an  instant. 
"  I  thought  —  I  thought  it  was  my  aunt,  and 
I  was  frightened." 

"  You  are  'fred  of  your  aunt  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  She  is  not  one  kind  lady  ?  " 


'£  Damage 


"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Alma,  slowly.  "  She  is 
very  kind." 

"  But  you  are  'fred  of  'er  ?  " 

"  She  would  be  very  vexed  to  find  me  sit 
ting  here  —  with  a  gentleman." 

"  But  you  are  with  my.  If  one  man  look 
at  you  I  shoot  —  bang  —  'e  is  dead  !  " 

"  But  that  would  be  very  terrible,"  she  re 
monstrated.  It  seemed  to  her  she  was  only 
talking  to  a  big  child  whom  it  was  hard  to 
get  rid  of. 

"  Nothing  shall  be  terrible  that  I  will 
do  for  you,"  said  da  Veiga,  emphatically. 

The  girl  flushed.  "  I  must  go  now,"  she 
said.  "  I  will  bid  you  good-bye,  and  I 
will  take  with  me  this  pretty  souvenir  and 
the  flowers." 

"  I  will  go  by  you,  and  I  will  carried 
them,"  he  suggested. 

"  Oh,  no,  no  ;  that  would  not  be  proper 
—  and  my  aunt  would  be  so  angry.  Good 
bye,  Sefior  da  Veiga."  She  held  out  her  hand. 

He  bowed  low  and  touched  his  lips  to  her 
glove.     "  Good-bye,"  he  said,  mournfully, 
"  my  only  friend.     Good-bye,  farewell." 
72 


>g  Carriage 


Alma  walked  hurriedly  away  out  of  the 
Park  and  left  him  there.  She  had  tried  to 
show  him  what  he  must  not  do,  and  she  had 
succeeded  only  in  drawing  him  and  herself 
into  a  ridiculous  position.  Suppose  any  one 
had  seen  him  kissing  her  hand  !  She  hardly 
knew  where  she  was  going.  And  that 
wretched  German  cup  and  saucer  —  what  to 
do  with  them  ?  Couldn't  she  lose  the  box 
somewhere  ?  She  would  go  into  some  store 
and  buy  something,  and  pretend  to  forget 
the  parcel  ;  but  the  clerk  would  run  out  after 
her.  She  would  drop  it  as  she  crossed  the 
street  ;  but  she  would  be  seen  by  some 
policeman  and  kept  in  view  for  suspicious 
conduct.  She  would  leave  it  in  a  street  car  ; 
but  the  conductor  would  shout  after  her. 
She  went  on,  hot  and  tormented,  toward 
the  Dows'.  As  she  turned  the  corner  she 
came  on  a  ragged  urchin.  "  Here,  boy," 
she  cried,  thrusting  it  at  him,  "  take  this  — 
it  is  a  pretty  cup  —  take  it  home  to  your  —  to 
your  mother  —  quick  !  "  and  fled.  As  she 
ran  up  the  steps  and  touched  the  bell  button 
she  heard  a  shrill  voice  inquiring  where  she 
73 


Carriage 


had  "  swiped  "  it.  But  she  only  smiled  — 
she  was  rid  of  the  thing.  Nor  did  she  mind 
Alice's  suggestion  that  she  appeared  fever 
ish.  She  presented  the  roses  to  Alice's 
mother  with  a  delightful  feeling  of  diplo 
macy.  Da  Veiga  was  not  mentioned. 


74 


CHAPTER  VI 

MISS    SYLVESTER  DISAPPEARS 

IN  reply  to  her  mother's  plain  question 
Alice  Dow  admitted  she  had  known  some 
thing  about  the  affair.  "  I  am  no  tale 
bearer  or  mischief-maker,  mamma,"  she  said, 
bluntly.  "  I  knew  Alma  was  not  happy 
with  her  aunt,  and  I  was  not  surprised  at 
any  odd  action  of  hers.  As  to  his  paying 
attentions  to  her,  I  have  seen  them  walking 
together.  But  I  didn't  imagine  it  had  gone 
as  far  as  an  engagement.  I  don't  suppose 
it  is  anything  worse  than  that,"  she  con 
cluded. 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  had  sent  a  note  beg 
ging  them  to  come  to  her  at  once,  as  she 
was  in  great  distress  over  Alma,  who  had 
refused  to  decline  the  addresses  of  an  adven 
turer.  She  particularly  wished  to  see  Alice. 
75 


'£  Carriage 


"  Of  course,  if  you  insist,  mamma,"  said 
the  girl,  "  but  I  reserve  my  right  not  to  in 
terfere.  If  Alma  should  contemplate  marry 
ing  Count  Geraldina,  who  can  prevent  ? 
She  is  of  age,  and  must  accept  responsibil 
ities.  I  don't  know  what  we  are  going  over 
to  see  Mrs.  Sevenbanks  for,  anyway." 

"  She  has  sent  for  us,"  said  the  mother, 
finally,  and  with  some  sharpness.  And  of 
course  they  went. 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  was  sitting  rigidly  up 
right  in  the  drawing-room.  She  seemed  too 
piteously  helpless  to  rise.  Mrs.  Dow  went 
up  and  took  her  hand.  "  There  is  nothing 
serious  the  matter,  I  trust  ?  " 

"  I  am  waiting  to  hear,"  said  Mrs.  Seven- 
banks,  with  an  effort.  "  1  have  sent  a  mes 
senger  —  Alma  has  gone  away." 

"  Gone  away  ?  "  Mother  and  daughter 
repeated  the  words  together. 

"  Yes.  I  am  obliged  to  confess  that  we 
had  a  most  painful  interview.  It  began 
with  my  acquainting  her  with  a  proposal  of 
marriage  I  had  received  for  her  ;  from  an 
excellent  parti  —  Colonel  Clifford's  cousin, 
76 


'g  Damage 


Mr.  Addison  Clifford,  a  wealthy  widower, 
as  you  know.  She  made  some  impertinent 
remarks  about  his  first  three  wives,  and  then 
informed  me  that  for  weeks  she  had  been 
permitting  this  adventurer's  attentions  — 
secretly,  of  course.  I  naturally  expressed 
my  horror,  my  aversion  to  the  man,  my  dis 
belief  in  his  title  of  count."  Mrs.  Seven- 
banks  paused  and  breathed  exhaustedly. 
"  She  then  assured  me  that  the  person  had 
proposed  marriage,  and  she  had  decided  to 
accept  him.  I  could  hardly  believe  my 
senses.  I  begged  her  to  consider  what  she 
was  saying  —  to  remember  that  she  might 
yet  care  for  some  good  man,  and  would  then 
feel  shame  at  having  spoken  in  this  way. 
She  answered  that  she  had  had  a  romantic  af 
fection  in  her  youth  for  some  one  favorably 
known  to  her  father,  that  they  had  been 
separated  forever,  and  that  all  the  feeling 
she  was  now  capable  of  —  sympathy  —  was 
given  to  this  —  person.  I  was  naturally  very 
angry.  I  bade  her  believe  that  if  ever  she 
took  such  a  false  step  she  must  expect  no 
countenance  from  me,  no  legacy.  She  re- 
77 


'£  Carriage 


torted  that  as  he  was,  or  would  be,  a  million 
aire,  it  mattered  little.  I  cannot  help  think 
ing  that  she  is  not  in  her  right  mind.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  I  must  see  Alice  and  ask 
her  if  Alma  had  told  her  anything." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Sevenbanks,"  exclaimed  Alice, 
"  I  am  so  sorry  !  But  really  I  can't  believe  she 
will  do  anything  so  foolish.  She  will  return 
presently,  I  am  sure.  We  have  only  to  wait." 

"  I  have  already  waited  nearly  three 
hours,"  said  Mrs.  Sevenbanks. 

"  I  could  never  have  believed  it  of  Alma," 
said  Mrs.  Dow.  "  Like  Alice,  I  cannot 
think  she  will  commit  any  folly.  But  did 
she  not  say  where  she  was  going  ?  " 

"  She  said  —  "  Mrs.  Sevenbanks  spoke 
faintly  —  "  that  she  was  going  to  meet  da 
Veiga  and  that  —  they  were  going  to  All 
Asphodels'  Church  to  —  be  married." 

"  You  forbade  her  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Dow. 
The  Dows  were  so  very  old-fashioned. 

"  Forbade  ?  She  is  twenty-three. 
I  did  not  credit  it.     She  soon  left  the  house. 
An    hour    ago  1  sent  —  to    All  Asphodels'. 
And  I  am  still  waiting  —  the  reply." 
78 


'g  Carriage 


The  Dow  ladies  looked  at  each  other  in 
consternation. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  do  but  wait,"  Alice 
repeated,  "  and  you  must  have  courage,  dear 
Mrs.  Sevenbanks." 

"  If  the  worst  comes,"  said  Alice's  mother, 
"  perhaps  there  is  really  nothing  against  the 
man.  He  seems  to  be  received  by  some 
very  nice  people.  Though  he  is  not  exactly 
the  kind  one  would  think  of  selecting  for  a 
charming  young  girl,  he  might  still  prove  a 
devoted  husband.  He  has  been  at  the  Clay 
tons',  and  -  " 

"  Mamma  !  "  cried  Alice,  reproachfully. 

"  My  dear,  I  am  only  looking  at  the 
darkest  side  ;  it  is  well  to  be  prepared. 
And  if  he  has  such  a  great  deal  of  money  — 
for,  after  all,  money  is  the  chief  thing  nowa 
days  -  " 

"  But  has  he  money  ?  Has  he  money  ?  " 
Mrs.  Sevenbanks  urged  the  question  with  a 
strange  despair.  "Has  he  money?"  Her 
voice  was  almost  a  wail.  Silence  ensued  for 
some  moments.  "  I  have  tried,"  said  Mrs. 
Sevenbanks  then,  "to  make  Alma's  life  a 
79 


>£  Carriage 


happy  one.  I  should  not  have  indulged 
her  more  had  she  been  my  own  daughter  — 
no,  rather  less.  Whatever  she  has  longed 
for  I  have  sought  to  give  her.  I  cannot  re 
member  to  have  denied  her  a  single  thing. 
It  was  my  desire  to  see  her  happy.  There 
seemed  born  in  her,  however,  that  strange 
taste  for  those  wild  countries.  You  know 
my  brother  was  Consul  down  there  when  he 
met  and  married  her  mother.  Years  later 
he  was  appointed  Minister  —  only  to  be  un 
justly  recalled,  for  the  mere  expression  of  an 
opinion.  I  could  not  take  her  to  South 
America,  but  I  would  have  taken  her  to 
London,  to  the  Continent,  to  Egypt,  around 
the  world,  to  any  place  where  there  is  no 
yellow  fever.  It  seemed  as  if  her  one  wish 
ungratified  was  to  go  where  there  is  yellow 
fever.  It  seemed  to  me  one  might  be  happy 
without  contracting  that  disease.  The  little 
property  that  her  father  left  —  it  was  ex 
tremely  little,  after  unfortunate  investments 
—  I  sought  to  preserve  for  her.  It  yields 
but  a  pitiful  six  hundred  a  year.  The  cruel- 
est  part  is  her  having  met  this  man  and 
80 


'g  Carriage 


walked  with  him  on  the  Avenue.  Fortu 
nately  it  is  a  time  of  year  when  no  one  is  in 
town.  We  should  have  gone  away  but  for 
my  delaying  because  of  the  Clifford  proposal." 

The  Dow  ladies  regarded  her  in  pitying 
silence.  It  all  seemed  unreal,  impossible. 
The  Sevenbanks  pride  and  reserve  to  crum 
ble  in  this  fashion  ?  Was  it  really  Mrs. 
Sevenbanks  ?  They  were  conscious  of  great 
moral  discomfort.  It  was  plainly  their  duty 
as  intimate  friends  to  remain  until  the  mes 
senger  returned,  but  they  would  have  been 
glad  to  escape.  Their  curiosity  was  consider 
able,  but  it  was  overshadowed  by  dread. 
They  felt  that  if,  on  the  other  hand,  their 
fears  were  unfounded,  Mrs.  Sevenbanks 
would  regret  having  said  so  much.  The 
whole  thing  was  most  unfortunate.  Besides, 
it  was  no  less  embarrassing  to  sit  waiting  in 
silence  than  impossible  in  such  moments  of 
suspense  to  introduce  any  other  subject. 

Intolerable   intervals   must  have  an  end. 
The  fine  warning  of  an  electric  bell  preceded 
only  by  some  seconds  the  entrance  of  the 
butler  with  a  letter. 
6  81 


"  Dear  Mrs.  Sevenbanks,  do  have  cour 
age,"  said  Alice,  as  she  had  said  before. 
"  Shall  I  open  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks,  trying  to  rise,  mur 
mured  a  faint  assent. 

"  It  is  from  Alma,"  said  the  girl,  tremu 
lously.  "It  only  says,  '  We  were  married, 
as  I  told  you,  at  All  Asphodels'  and  go  at 


She  stopped,   for   Mrs.  Sevenbanks    had 
sunk  down  in  a  quivering,  helpless  heap. 


CHAPTER  VII 

LIFE  AND    ILLUSIONS 

DA  VEIGA  and  his  bride  had  not  gone 
away  on  any  of  the  elaborate  wedding  tours 
he  had  previously  suggested.  There  were 
certain  capitalists  he  must  meet  who  were  to 
form  a  company  of  which  he  should  be  treas 
urer.  Alma  remained  for  the  present  in  the 
Madison  avenue  apartment  to  which  he  had 
taken  her.  As  she  had  never  lived  in  an 
apartment,  the  novelty  was  pleasing.  The 
rooms  were  smaller  than  any  to  which  she 
had  ever  been  accustomed,  but  they  were  de 
lightfully,  even  luxuriously,  furnished,  even 
to  an  excellent  little  white-and-gold  piano. 
There  was  only  one  servant — besides,  of 
course,  the  weekly  laundress — but  this  was  a 
very  capable  Swedish  woman.  They  were 
on  the  top  floor,  and  there  was  a  fine  view 

83 


'g  Carriage 


and  frequently  a  refreshing  breeze.  When 
da  Veiga  went  away  a  few  days  after  their 
marriage  and  left  her  at  the  window,  looking 
out,  she  said  to  herself  that  at  least  he  was  a 
kind  man,  and  as  they  were  to  have  a  good 
deal  of  money  she  would  never  need  to  re 
gret  the  step  she  had  taken. 

By  this  time  her  Aunt  Sevenbanks  had 
got  over  the  shock.  By  this  time  word  had 
doubtless  been  sent  her  Aunt  Ester,  who  was 
now  in  Paris,  acquainting  her  with  the  result 
of  Severino  Gonzalez's  unfortunate  letter  of 
introduction.  By  this  time  the  Dows  knew 
of  her  marriage,  and  Alice  had  shrugged  her 
shoulders  and  said  her  say  about  aboriginal 
tribes.  By  this  time  it  had  been  whispered 
about  among  such  of  her  aunt's  friends  as 
had  not  left  the  city,  and  it  would  soon  ring 
in  the  ears  and  roll  under  the  tongues  of 
those  at  the  seaside  and  in  the  country  what 
awful  thing  that  pretty  little  niece  of  Mrs. 
Sevenbanks  had  gone  and  done.  There  had 
not  been  much  in  the  newspapers  about  it, 
fortunately,  and  the  meagre  announcement 
she  had  seen  had  made  no  mention  of  da 
84 


'£  Carriage 


Veiga's  title,  so  that  there  would  be  no  ridi 
cule  on  that  point. 

It  was  rather  nice  to  have  some  one  mor 
ally  or  physically  on  his  knees  to  her  half  the 
time.  The  warm  weather  was  enervating, 
and  they  led  a  lazy  life.  Da  Veiga  always 
slept  very  late  in  the  morning.  At  ten  he 
would  have  his  cup  of  black  coffee,  his  cigar 
ette  case  of  black  cigarettes  and  his  morning 
newspaper  of  black  headlines  brought  to  him 
in  bed.  At  twelve  or  later,  after  slow  con 
sumption  of  the  contents  of  each  of  these,  he 
would  get  up  and  make  a  correspondingly 
slow  toilet. 

They  had  been  married  a  month  or  more 
when  the  first  faint  shadow  of  disillusion 
came  creeping  into  that  apartment.  Alma 
had  risen  early  one  morning  at  the  touch  of 
a  sunbeam  that  had  lifted  her  eyelids,  and  had 
herself  brought  the  coffee  and  the  newspaper 
—  the  cigarette  case  was  already  under  his  pil 
low  —  to  her  husband.  She  had  thought  he 
was  awake,  and  he  was  not.  There  was  a  sud 
den  commotion  of  the  bedclothes,  a  heavy 
lurching  over,  a  savage  human  growl  :  "  You 


'g  Carriage 


don't  will  let  my  sleep  !  'Ere  'ave  I  not 
sleep  all  night.  You  make  my  -  " 

In  the  shock  of  surprise  and  fright  she  let 
the  cup  slip,  some  drops  of  very  hot  coffee 
splashed  on  his  face,  and  the  Count  Geral- 
dina  sat  up  in  bed  and  swore  in  his  own 
language  an  amazing  oath. 

Three  hours  later  he  was  on  his  knees  say 
ing  good-bye  and  calling  her  his  angel,  his 
life,  his  Alma  indeed,  his  veritable  soul,  be 
fore  setting  out  for  Delmonico's,  where  he 
was  to  meet  some  gentlemen.  For  the  first 
time  it  seemed  to  her  there  was  too  much 
wax  on  his  mustache  and  chin  tuft. 

That  evening  he  returned  very  late.  He 
had  had  a  three-hour  luncheon,  he  said,  and 
was  not  hungry.  He  was  sorry  not  to  have 
come  home  sooner,  and  he  would  have  a 
plate  of  consomme.  The  wine  he  had  drunk 
at  luncheon  caused  him  to  speak  louder  than 
usual,  and  he  ate  his  soup  audibly.  After 
dinner  —  it  was  a  long  Midsummer  day  and 
still  light  at  eight  —  they  sat  talking  in  the 
bow  window  of  their  small  drawing-room. 

"  I  did  show  to  them  'ow  they  shall  or- 
86 


^  Carriage 


ganize  their  companeeyah,"  said  da  Veiga, 
getting  his  cigarette  case  from  the  top  of  a 
curio  cabinet,  "  and  I  did  talk  to  them  like 
one  diablo.  (  Gentlemens,'  I  did  say,  '  you 
will  not  found  any  other  way.  You  give  my 
commixion  or  you  give  my  cash.  You  give 
my  what  I  shall  need.  One  million  —  what 
is  that  ?  '  " 

He  moved  about  looking  for  matches,  and 
Alma  quickly  rose  to  supply  the  want.  "  But 
I  thought  the  company  was  already  organ 
ized,"  she  said. 

He  continued  to  move  about  the  room 
and  made  no  reply  to  this.  "  You  see,"  he 
went  on  with  his  own  train  of  thought,  "  I 
'ave  long  know  those  peoples.  But  I  found 
one  way  to  get  that  money."  He  sat  down 
again  and  smoked  harder,  gazing  across  the 
town.  Presently  he  took  the  cigarette  hold 
er  from  his  lips.  "  I  'ave  too  much  pain  to 
smoke,"  he  said.  "  Was  'ere  one  man  did 
shoot  my  in  those  wars  ;  'ere  in  this  cheek." 

"  Wasn't  the  bullet  extracted  ?  "  she  in 
quired. 

"  Oh,  that  bullet.  It  near  did  kill  my. 
87 


'£  Carriage 


You  see  back  of  this  ear  one  mark.  By  this 
it  did  go  out." 

Alma  reflected.  "  I  suppose  you  are  jok 
ing,"  she  said.  "  There  is  a  look  in  your 
eyes  and  around  your  mouth  as  if  what  you 
say  is  not  true."  The  flicker  had  made  it 
self  dimly  perceptible  to  her,  though  even 
yet  she  did  not  fully  comprehend  its  mean 
ing. 

"  What  you  say  ?  "  cried  da  Veiga.  He 
tried  to  seem  hurt  at  the  suggestion,  but  was 
soon  laughing  and  telling  of  jewels  he  had 
seen  that  day  which  he  should  purchase  for 
her  later  on. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  night  that  sleep 
would  never  come.  The  room  was  very 
warm  ;  July  in  town  was  something  she  had 
never  before  known.  What  air  came  in  at 
the  windows  had  no  purity  left  ;  it  seemed 
to  rise  soiled  with  the  foul  breath  of  thousands 
on  thousands.  The  moon,  some  three  hours 
high,  was  full  and  orange  red,  with  the  prom 
ise  of  still  greater  heat.  She  had  not  seen 
it  so  intense  of  color  since  the  year  before, 
when,  she  remembered,  it  had  risen  over  the 
88 


'£  Carriage 


dunes  that  lay  between  the  sea  and  the  cot 
tage  where  her  aunt  and  she  had  dwelt. 
From  this  memory  she  gave  thought  to  her 
aunt,  serious,  long  thought  for  the  first  time 
in  those  fifteen  days  of  changed  existence. 
She  recalled  every  circumstance  of  leaving 
home  ;  how  when  she  had  sent  for  her  trunks 
they  had  been  delivered  to  the  expressman 
without  word  or  line  ;  how  no  communica 
tion  and  no  reproach  had  come  to  her.  From 
remembering  she  could  not  but  turn  to  specu 
lating  on  what  her  aunt  had  said  or  done,  if 
anything,  in  the  matter  ;  if  the  Dows  had 
censured  her  very  much,  and  if  they  would 
cut  her  were  she  to  meet  them  on  the  street 
when  they  came  back  to  the  city  in  the  Au 
tumn.  She  wondered  if  her  aunt  had  really 
felt  very  bad  or  was  merely  a  little  sad  and 
much  relieved  to  be  rid  of  her  responsibili 
ties.  She  wondered  what  had  become  of 
Clifford,  the  widower.  She  wondered  when 
she  should  meet  her  aunt  again  and  what 
words  would  be  exchanged  between  them. 
She  felt  a  strange  uneasiness  at  the  thought 
of  that  meeting.  She  felt  as  if  her  aunt  might 
89 


'g  Carriage 


ask  her  some  unanswerable  question  ;  she 
felt  restless  and  suffocated  ;  her  limbs  were 
hot,  and  ached.  She  would  have  liked  to 
spread  a  sheet  on  the  floor  of  the  drawing- 
room  and  stretch  herself  on  it,  but  she  feared 
to  disturb  da  Veiga.  He  was  long  since  asleep 
—  dreaming  perhaps  of  the  men  with  whom 
he  had  had  the  luncheon.  She  felt  that  the 
night  was  going  to  be  very  long  and  she  her 
self  very  lonely.  She  felt  as  if  something 
had  changed  ;  as  if  some  veil  was  torn  away 
and  she  saw  more  clearly.  There  was  a  heavy 
feeling  on  her  heart.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she  had  done  harm  to  some  human  being, 
and  could  never  repair  it.  Tears  oozed  slow 
ly  from  under  her  eyelids  and  wet  her  face 
and  presently  the  pillow.  Her  throat  con 
tracted  so  that  she  could  hardly  breathe.  She 
had  not  meant  to  be  unkind  ...  to  any  one  ; 
she  had  not  been  able  to  be  unkind  ...  to 
da  Veiga.  And  thus  .  .  .  she  still  had  been 
unkind  ...  to  others  .  .  .  perhaps  to  her 
self! 


90 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MORE    ILLUSIONS 

"  OH,  poor  my  darling  !  "  Da  Veiga  had 
come  home  late  again.  "  To-day  was  one 
vare  warm  day.  I  was  near  to  die.  You 
see  they  did  meet.  They  did  send  for  my 
and  I  did  go — "  The  perspiration  stood 
large  on  his  brow  as  he  spoke.  "  They 
think  to  rob  one  poor  foreigner,  and  they 
make  mistake.  Those  Americanos  are 
one — I  beg  your  pairdone,  I  was  near  to 
swear.  Oh,  querida,  when  I  did  feel  sure  I 
did  like  to  say, '  I  take  you  so — by  that  neck, 
I  break  it — so,  with  my  two  'ands.' ' 

Alma,  watching  him  in  a  fascinated  way, 
moved  back  unconsciously,  a  trifle  pale. 

"  What  is  that  ? "  he  cried,  irritably. 
"  You  are  'fred  ? "  Then  suddenly  chang 
ing  to  a  smile,  "  Querida,  I  will  go  take  ofT 
my  coat,  also  my  colyar.  You  did  eat? 


'£  Carriage 


No  ?     We  eat   together.     But   frest   I   will 
drink  one  glass  of  water." 

She  carried  it  to  him  in  the  dressing-room, 
and  he  paused  to  swallow  the  contents  in  a 
single  long,  large  draught  and  ask  for  more. 

"  But  it  is  ice  water,"  she  said,  "  and  you 
are  very  warm  -  " 

"  Oh,  well,  well,  well  !  "  he  cried,  crossly, 
flinging  off  his  clothing.  "  Vare  well,  I 
wait."  When  he  had  attired  himself  more 
comfortably  they  went  into  the  dining-room 
together,  where  the  Swedish  servant  was 
placing  the  soup  on  the  table. 

"  Why  is  not  that  window  ope'  ?  "  he  de 
manded,  still  very  cross. 

"  There  is  a  strong  breeze,"  said  Alma, 
"  and  I  thought  the  soup  —  and  you  -  " 

He  would  not  wait  for  the  explanation 
but  threw  up  the  sash  with  a  noisy  bang  and 
took  his  seat.  "  I  am  so  fresty,"  he  mur 
mured,  seizing  a  second  glass  of  water  and 
swallowing  it  between  two  breaths.  "  What 
sopa  is  that  ?  "  He  tasted  it  suspiciously. 

"  It  is  cream  of  celery,  I  think,"  Alma  re 
sponded,  feebly. 

92 


'£  Carriage 


"  Cream  of  infierno  !  "  He  flung  down 
his  spoon.  "  Where  is  that  ajo  ?  That 
woman  is  one  estupida  !  I  am  sick  of  eat 
that  sopa  made  by  'er.  She  is  one  big,  oogly 
Swedie.  I  will  send  'er  from  that  kitchen  ; 
1  will  found  one  man."  He  had  overlooked 
the  garlic  on  a  small  dish  near  his  plate. 
Now  observing  it,  he  began  to  tear  it  vici 
ously  into  small  pieces  and  drop  it  into  the 
soup.  "  I  will  found  one  man,"  he  repeated. 

"Oh,  Rufino,  what  could  I  do  with  just 
a  man  ?  "  said  Alma,  beginning  to  show  pet 
ulance.  "  I  am  here  all  alone,  and  I  must 
have  a  maid.  It  seems  odd  enough,  any 
way  —  only  one  servant." 

DaVeiga  laughed.  His  favorite  dish  had 
restored  his  humor.  "  Oh,  what  a  fine 
weather  !  "  he  cried,  as  the  wind  blew  in 
strong  over  the  lower  housetops  ;  "  what  a 
fine  weather  !  "  His  countenance  glistened 
with  moisture  ;  he  suggested  a  large  sponge. 
He  would  have  no  dessert,  only  his  coffee 
and  cigarros.  The  wind  blew  in  delightfully. 
Later,  when  they  returned  to  the  drawing- 
room,  he  began  to  hum  a  song  that  Alma 
93 


t0r'£  Carriage 


had  always  liked  —  "  O,  Linda  Flor."  It 
came  up  with  such  ease  from  his  deep  chest 
that  she  had  often  wondered  if  he  might  not 
have  been  a  really  great  singer.  His  ordi 
nary  speaking  voice  was  melodious  and  well 
modulated.  It  was,  in  truth,  one  of  his 
chief  attractions,  although  she  had  never 
especially  considered  the  fact. 

After  a  little  da  Veiga  ceased  humming 
and  spoke  in  a  tone  of  retrospection. 

"  One  girl  did  used  to  sing  that  song.  I 
did  know  'er."  The  pupils  of  his  eyes 
darkened  slowly  with  emotion.  "  She  was 
one  diabloy"  he  said,  under  his  breath.  "  I 
was  near  to  kill  'er  one  day." 

Alma  stopped  playing  instantly  and  turned 
toward  him.  "To  kill  whom  ?"  she  asked. 

"  One  girl  did  sing  that  song." 

"  But  why  did  you  wish  to  kill  her  ?  "  she 
insisted  ;  "  did  she  sing  so  badly  ?  " 

"  She  did  try  to  make  my  love  'er,  and  I 
did  'ate  'er  soon."  He  sat  comfortably  in 
his  easy-chair,  his  feet  on  the  little  sofa  that 
stood  in  the  bow-window  curve.  From  this 
window  the  view  covered  three  directions. 
94 


'£  Carriage 


One  saw  many  steeples  and  spires  and  tre 
mendous  hotel  buildings  and  far  away  the 
haze  that  rose  from  the  river. 

"  Now  is  vare  motch  more  cool,"  said  da 
Veiga,  after  an  extended  silence.  He  turned 
and  saw  that  Alma  had  disappeared. 
"  Where  you  are,  querida  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  I  am  lying  down  in  the  bedroom,"  she 
answered,  through  the  silken  portieres.  "  I 
am  tired." 

Then  came  another  silence. 

Some  time  later,  it  might  have  been  hours, 
she  was  awakened  by  deep  groans.  Da 
Veiga  had  not  retired,  but  had  fallen  asleep 
on  the  bow-window  sofa.  There  had  come 
a  rapid  change  of  atmosphere  ;  the  night 
had  turned  cold,  as  if  a  storm  had  burst 
somewhere. 

"  Querida!    1  am  vare  sick  —  near  to  die  !  " 

"  What     ...     is  the  matter  ?  " 

It  had  taken  some  moments  for  her  to 
come  back  from  spirit  wanderings.  Her 
dream  had  been  of  the  dunes  down  by  the 
sea,  where,  with  her  aunt,  she  had  spent  the 
Summer  the  year  before.  There  had  been  a 
95 


'g  Carriage 


tempest,  and  it  was  calm  again,  and  there  was 
sunlight  shining  over  the  sea.  Now  she 
emerged  from  the  dimness  of  the  bedroom 
in  her  white,  clinging  draperies,  and  shiver 
ing  with  cold  and  alarm,  repeated  the  ques 
tion. 

"  I  did  take  cold,"  he  murmured,  with  a 
long  shudder.  "  I  breathe  so  —  vare  'ard  I 
breathe.  'Ere  in  my  breast  I  am  sick. 
Maybe  I  come  to  die  this  night.  Ai>  al  ! 
Maybe  I  come  to  die  !  " 

"  Will  you  not  retire  ?  "  she  asked,  with 
her  hand  on  his  forehead.  He  responded 
only  with  a  deeper  groan.  She  turned  the 
lights  higher  and  sat  down  beside  him.  "  If 
you  will  not  go  to  bed,"  she  said,  presently, 
"  I  will  cover  you  with  blankets  here  and 
watch  at  your  side  awhile."  She  drew  down 
the  windows.  He  seemed  to  her  not  ill,  but 
merely  chilled  and  stiff  from  lying  in  the 
draughts.  She  realized  that  her  alarm  had 
been  very  fleeting,  and  it  gave  her  a  sense  of 
uneasiness.  Her  thoughts  were  slightly  con 
fused,  yet  there  was  no  actual  fear. 

But  sleep  did  not  come  to  him,  even  when 
96 


she  had  tucked  coverlets  carefully  about  his 
couch  and  made  herself  comfortable  in  a 
Turkish  chair.  He  continued  to  speak 
dreamily  at  intervals. 

"  I  am  one  poor  foreigner,"  he  murmured, 
"  yet  so  my  wife  is  vare  good  to  my.  I 
never  did  thought  to  found  one  so  good 
wife.  i  did  'ave  such  estrange  life.  In 
those  day  when  my  father  did  fling  away 
that  graty  name  and  cry  f  I  am  repub- 
licano  I ' — in  those  day,  when  I  did  ride  free 
upon  that  grandy  lands,  I  never  did  thought. 
My  mother  was  daughter  of  one 
great  chief.  'E  was  one  vare  large  India. 
'E  did  go  down  from  that  mountains  into 
those  beautiful  Bolivia.  There  'e  did  see 
one  young  girl  most  beautiful.  'E  did  love 
'er  when  'e  did  see  'er  and  'e  did  steal  'er  and 
carry  off — off — up  back  to  that  mountain. 
She  did  'ave  one  daughter  when  she  die. 
My  grandfather  did  love  that  daughter  and 
did  make  'er  to  be  like  one  princesa.  By-in- 
bye  come  one  tall  young  nobly  man,  son  of 
one  rich  conde^  and  fall  in  love  with  'er.  'E 
marry  'er  and  take  away.  And  I  did  born 
1  97 


's?  Carriage 


of  this.  I  did  born  there  on  those  frontera 
of  that  beautiful  Bolivia  —  I  did  lead  one 
wildly  life.  I  did  take  motch  money  and 
did  go  away  to  Europa  and  did  gamb'  —  " 
His  voice  died  off  in  a  sigh. 

"  Try  to  sleep,"  said  Alma,  in  a  tone  of 
pure  compassion.  She  began  to  feel  now 
that  the  only  real  emotion  left  in  the  world 
was  that  of  compassion. 

But  it  seemed  that  he  must  go  on  recalling 
his  life.  "  I  did  gamb'  and  did  do  motch 
wickedness.  I  did  forget  'ow  that  my 
mother,  who  was  one  angel,  did  say  to  my, 
'  Rufino,  never  leave  to  pray  and  read  in  your 
'oly  book  your  prayers.'  And  when  so  I  did 
forget,  motch  bad  did  come  to  my.  I  did 
know  one  woman  —  one  diablo  Americano  that 
I  did  found  in  Paris.  And  she  did  try  to 
make  my  love  'er.  Many  things  she  did  do 
when  I  was  sick  ;  vare  well  she  did  take  care 
of  my  when  I  did  'ave  onzfiebre.  And  she 
did  travel  with  my  to  this  country.  But  she 
did  think  to  make  my  married  her.  Then 
she  did  'ate  my.  I  fill  vare  surry,  but  she 
was  one  diablo.  Now  she  is  dead." 
98 


'g  Carriage 


Again  his  voice  died  away  in  a  sigh.  But 
this  time  Alma  did  not  respond.  She  was 
not  asleep.  She  had  heard  all  that  he  had 
said,  and  she  felt  herself  growing  numb  and 
unable  to  speak.  It  seemed  to  her  that  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life  she  had  tasted  actual 
anguish.  There  was  a  single  question  that 
seemed  piercing  her  with  its  desire  to  be  ut 
tered  :  "  How  long  ago  was  this 
other  woman?"  But  she  could  not  utter  it. 
Her  power  of  utterance  was  gone.  Cold, 
dumb,  inert,  she  sat  there,  scarcely  caring  to 
breathe.  She  knew  now  that  she  had  made 
some  terrible  mistake,  from  which  there  could 
be  no  receding  —  to  which  there  could  come 
no  end  but  death.  She  heard  the  clock  in 
the  room  adjoining  strike  three,  and  she  was 
wide  awake. 


99 


CHAPTER    IX 

A    DAY    OF      REFLECTION 

DA  VEIGA  was  quite  recovered  by  the 
following  noon,  and  went  down  town  in  a 
cheerful  mood.  Immediately  he  had  gone 
the  Swedish  girl  came  to  give  warning.  She 
was  obliged  to  leave  in  order  to  go  and  take 
care  of  a  sick  relative.  The  postman,  she 
explained,  had  brought  her  a  letter  on  the 
first  delivery,  before  her  mistress  was  up. 
Alma,  in  reply,  requested  only  that  she  pre 
pare  luncheon  before  going.  It  did  not  sur 
prise  her  as  much  as  it  might  have  surprised 
her  the  day  before  to  hear  that  the  maid  had 
not  received  her  wages  for  three  months. 
She  was  fast  becoming  accustomed  to  queer 
things. 

While  having  luncheon  she  resolved  not 
to  pay  the  girl,  but  to  ask  her  to  come  back 
101 


'g  Carriage 


that  evening  when  Mr.  da  Veiga  should  be 
at  home.  At  the  last  moment  she  changed 
her  mind  and  decided  that  the  girl  might 
need  money  and  she  would  give  her  at  least 
a  part  of  what  was  due.  By  three  o'clock 
she  was  alone  in  the  apartment.  There  was 
a  cool  and  pleasant  breeze  from  the  west, 
and  she  thought  it  would  be  nice  to  go  out 
for  a  walk.  And  then  she  remembered  that 
da  Veiga  had  said  he  should  return  early. 
She  decided  she  would  look  through  the 
servant's  now  unoccupied  room  and  also  the 
pantries.  But  this  took  only  a  short  time. 
She  stood  looking  out  and  down  from  the 
drawing-room  window.  She  felt  a  sudden 
disgust  for  the  house  and  wondered  if  there 
would  not  be  time  enough  to  slip  out,  get 
on  a  street-car  and  ride  down  as  far  as  her 
old  home.  In  all  these  days  she  had  not 
ventured  back  to  that  neighborhood.  Of 
course,  her  aunt  was  not  in  town,  but  merely 
to  see  the  house  once  more  would  be  a  satis 
faction.  But  da  Veiga  would  come  home 
early,  and  she  must  not  be  away.  She  opened 
the  piano  and  tried  to  play,  but  her  fingers 

IO2 


were  stiff;  the  piano  gave  out  a  dull,  per 
functory  sound.  She  went  back  to  the 
window,  and  looking  into  the  street  again, 
saw  a  woman,  tall,  slender,  rather  shabby, 
moving  slowly  along  the  opposite  side.  Her 
inactive  mind  considered  the  question  ir 
resolutely  whether  or  not  there  were  other 
women  worse  off  than  herself.  Then  her 
brain  became  possessed  of  one  single  agoniz 
ing,  fascinating  interrogation  :  "  How  long 
ago  was  that  .  .  .  other  woman  ?"  The 
horror  of  that  thought  was  like  a  suffocating 
weight.  More  than  once  before  da  Veiga 
had  left  the  house  she  had  started  to  ask 
him — to  beg  him  to  tell  her  when — how  long 
since — he  had  come  from  Europe  with — that 
woman — the  woman  who  had  wanted  him  to 
marry  her — who  had  loved  him,  probably. 
Each  time  she  had  felt  herself  grow  pale. 
And  now  he  was  gone,  and  she  could  not 
ask  him.  She  could  only  fall  to  thinking 
again  about  ...  if  the  woman  had 
loved  him.  And  from  that  to  considering 
her  own  feeling  for  him — if  it  had  been  love 
— or  affection  .  .  .  and  what  love  was 


ter'£  Carriage 


—  and  what  affection  —  and  what  had  brought 
about  her    .     .     .     affection  for  him     .     .     . 
or     ...     or  love  ?  She  had 
not  been  attracted  by  his  personality.     The 
title  she  had  made  him  promise  to  lay  aside 

—  she  had  not  wanted  American   friends   to 
ridicule  them.     She  recalled  again  the  days 
of  the  early  Spring  —  the  visit  from  her  Aunt 
Ester,  and  especially  the  night  at  the  Clay 
tons',  when  da  Veiga  had  stood  bowing  and 
bending  over  her   chair   and   telling   of  his 
escape  out  of  the  Argentine.     Incidents   of 
the  days   that  followed  flashed   back  upon 
her  —  the  afternoons  in  which  he  had  called  ; 
the  breaking  of  her  aunt's  tea-cup  ;  the  chance 
meeting  in  the  Avenue  and  the  untruths  she 
had  told  about  going  at  once  to  the  country  ; 
her  endeavor  to  get  rid  of  the  cup  and  saucer 
he   had  bought  ;  her   flight  to  the   Dows'  ; 
the  mocking  laughter  of  the  ragged  urchin 
into  whose  hands  she  had  thrust  the  offend 
ing  china.     And  after  that  —  another  morn 
ing  —  was  it  not  the  very  next?  —  when   the 
sky  was  full  of  clouds  and  soft  Spring  rain 
was  falling,   and   she,  setting   forth  to   the 

104 


'£  Carriage 


shops  to  make  purchases  for  her  aunt,  and 
turning  the  corner  suddenly,  fell  almost  into 
the  arms  of  da  Veiga.  And  his  first  ques 
tion,  that  had  caused  her  heart  to  swell  up 
and  choke  her  : 

"  Why  you  did  give  to  one  streety  boy 
that  cop  which  I  did  buy  and  bring  to  you  ?  " 

The  consuming  mortification  of  that 
moment,  too  intense  for  forgetting  ;  the 
dumbness  that  had  stricken  her,  the  help 
lessness,  the  silence  that  had  lasted  until  he 
had  said  :  "  You  see,  I  understand.  She 
make  you  to  be  one  'fred  yong  lady.  That 
is  it." 

She  recalled  his  story  of  having  followed 
her,  having  seen  with  his  own  eyes  what  she 
had  done,  and  of  having  repurchased  his 
spurned  offering  ;  and  her  continued,  help 
less  silence  that  had  seemed  to  create  a  sort 
of  confidence  between  them  ;  and  next  in 
the  chain  of  events  her  attempt  to  atone  for 
wounding  his  feelings  by  kind  interest  in 
what  he  had  to  say  of  himself  and  the 
gigantic  enterprise  in  which  he  was  engaged 
—  the  company  which  should  send  enormous 
105 


ter^  Carriage 


vessels  to  the  new  South  American  pearl 
fisheries,  the  monopoly  of  which  was  in  his 
hands  as  a  government  concession  —  his  pur 
pose  to  reap  rich  reward  —  millions  —  as  his 
share  ;  and  then  —  his  plans  to  go  back  to 
South  America. 

She  considered  the  growth  of  the  strangely 
begotten  confidence  between  them,  which  had 
led  her  to  forget  wholly  how  he  had  seemed  to 
her  at  first  ;  the  confidence  which  had  seemed 
to  efface  recollection  of  his  impressive  pecul 
iarities  and  of  whatever  amusement  or  rid 
icule  they  had  excited  formerly  during  his 
calls  at  her  aunt's  house  ;  which  had  seemed 
to  foster  indifference  to  the  view  her  aunt  or 
others  might  take  of  her  encouragement  of 
the  friendship  of  this  man,  and  which  had 
seemed,  on  the  whole,  to  yield  a  sort  of  con 
solation  for  real  or  fancied  disappointments 
or  repressions  of  the  past  ;  the  confidence 
which  had  caused  her  to  return  unmovedly 
the  surprised  glances  of  her  friend,  Alice 
Dow,  who  by  chance  had  met  her  in  da 
Veiga's  company  on  the  Avenue  —  the  Dows 
not  having  yet  gone  to  their  country  house 
1  06 


^  Carriage 


in  the  Orange  Mountains  ;  the  enmeshing, 
engrossing  confidence  into  which  she  had 
felt  herself  slipping  under  the  power  of  his 
unfaltering  devotion  and  her  own  restless 
desires. 

However  lighted  by  these  swift  flashes  of 
recollection,  her  brain  still  felt  sluggish  and 
oppressed,  and  at  the  end  recurred  inevitably 
the  same  old  torturing  question  as  to  the 
time  when  that  other  woman  had  troubled 
his  existence.  She  tried  to  form  an  approx 
imate  idea.  It  could  not  have  been  the  year 
previous,  for  then  he  was  in  South  America, 
fighting  in  border  wars.  It  could  not  have 
been  the  year  before  that.  He  had  not  been 
in  Europe  for  five  or  six  years,  perhaps,  ex 
cept  when  on  his  way  up  from  the  Argentine 
—  the  roundabout  route  by  which  travelers 
usually  came  to  the  United  States  —  in  the 
February  not  yet  six  months  past.  It  could 
not  have  been  then,  for  he  had  not  loitered 
in  Paris.  He  had  brought  the  Severino 
Gonzalez  letter  very  speedily  to  her  Aunt 
Ester.  She  remembered  her  Aunt  Ester 
said  so.  Besides,  he  could  not  —  no,  he 
107 


'£  Damage 


could  not.  ...  It  was  six  years  past,  and 
the  woman  was  dead  and  she  must  not  be 
recalled.  Five-year  graves  held  only  skele 
tons.  She  must  forget. 

Looking  down  into  the  street  again  she 
saw  loitering  there  the  woman  she  had  seen 
some  time  before  ;  loitering  and  looking  up 
at  the  building. 


1 08 


CHAPTER  X 

A    MYSTERIOUS    NOTE 

IT  occurred  to  her  finally  that  it  must  be 
late  and  that,  although  she  felt  no  sensation 
of  hunger,  it  must  be  long  past  the  dinner 
hour.  Since  dusk  she  had  been  lying  on  a 
small  couch  in  the  drawing-room  bow  win 
dow.  Da  Veiga  had  not  come  yet,  although 
he  had  said  particularly  that  he  should  be 
home  early. 

With  a  faint  instinct  of  alarm  she  got  up 
and  lighted  the  gas,  and  at  that  moment  was 
relieved  to  hear  the  apartment  bell  rung  from 
the  street  entrance  hall.  As  she  went 
through  to  the  kitchen  to  press  the  servant's 
button  she  noticed  by  the  dining-room  clock 
that  it  was  midnight.  The  elevator  had 
stopped  running  and  da  Veiga  would  have 
to  climb  to  the  fifth  floor.  It  was  his  ring, 
109 


tcr'£  Carriage 


double  and  long  continued.  He  had  his 
key,  but  he  wished  to  let  her  know  that  he 
had  arrived  and  was  ascending  very  slowly, 
sitting  down  at  the  foot  of  each  flight  to  rest 
and  recover  his  breath.  She  took  matches 
and  went  into  the  passage  to  open  the  door 
leading  to  the  outer  hall,  where,  doubtless, 
the  lights  were  low.  As  her  hand  turned 
the  knob  something  on  the  carpet  at  her  feet 
attracted  her  attention.  She  stooped  and 
picked  up  a  letter,  which  apparently  had 
been  slipped  under  the  door.  She  went 
back,  stood  under  the  gas  and  read  the  ad 
dress  —  "  Mrs.  da  Veiga."  The  scratchy, 
almost  trembling  writing  looked  so  out  of 
place  on  the  good,  thick  linen  paper  that  it 
suggested  the  hand  of  a  menial.  She  tore 
open  the  envelope  with  uncomfortable  pre 
monitory  sensations  ;  it  must  be  that  the 
Swedish  servant  was  going  to  be  disagreeably 
in  haste  about  the  balance  due  her.  The 
contents  were  brief: 

A  lady  who  must  see  Mrs.  da  Veiga  on   a 
private   and  important    matter  will   call  to 
morrow  at  three  precisely,  and  would  request 
no 


'£  Carriage 


Mrs.  da  Veiga  to  meet  her  at  the  entrance 
of  her  house.  As  a  matter  of  justice  to  one 
of  her  own  sex  this  note  should  not  be  men 
tioned  to  any  one  or  any  one  be  informed  of  the 
appointment. 

And  below,  as  an  afterthought  : 

If  this  is  mentioned  to  any  one  you  may  be 
prevented  learning  in  time  what  you  will 
later  regret  not  having  learned. 

Refolding  the  sheet  she  placed  it  carefully 
in  her  bosom.  She  had  read  it  twice,  and 
now  she  heard  da  Veiga  coming  up  the  fourth 
and  last  flight.  "  Hijo  de  —  "  he  was  mut 
tering  thickly  and  breathlessly  when  he 
caught  sight  of  her.  "  Why  you  did  not  go 
and  esleep,  poor  my  darling  ?  "  he  inquired, 
with  much  solicitude,  and  closed  the  door 
behind  him  not  too  softly. 

"  You  are  very  late,"  said  Alma,  with  a 
queer  catch  in  her  throat.  She  was  white 
and  trembling  from  reading  the  anonymous 
note. 

11  I  did  want  to  come  more  early,  and 
those  peoples  did  make  my  stay."  The 
i  ii 


heavy  cane  he  carried  fell  out  of  his  hand  as 
he  entered  the  drawing-room.  "  You  did 
eat  well,  querida  ?  "  he  questioned,  as  he  ar 
ranged  his  hat,  his  cigarette  case,  his  watch 
and  a  large  envelope  of  papers  severally 
and  consecutively  along  the  top  of  the 
piano. 

Alma  fell  back  from  the  arm  he  extended 
to  encircle  her.  She  moved  farther  across 
the  room  and  stood  looking  at  him  over  a 
chair. 

"  You  might  have  let  me  know  your  in 
tention  to  spend  the  evening  as  you  did," 
she  said,  in  a  high,  strange  voice. 

Da  Veiga  wheeled,  and  into  his  eyes  came 
a  startled  expression.  Her  own  had  a  light 
in  them  he  had  not  seen  before.  There  was 
silence,  then  Alma  spoke  again  : 

"  The  servant  left  at  three.  I  have  been 
alone  for  nine  long  hours,  and  I  have  had  no 
dinner.  If  you  had  not  said  positively  that 
you  would  come  early " 

"  Why  you  did  let  that  big  Swedie  go 
out  ? "  he  thundered,  with  sudden  anger. 
Then  his  voice  dropped.  "  Poor  my  dar- 
112 


^  Carriage 


ling  !  And  you  'ave  not  eat  ?  Come  with 
my,  querida  ;  I  make  one  fine  cena.  On  those 
immortal  field  of  battle,  in  those  graty  wars, 
man'  times  we  soldiers  build  those  fire  and 
make  that  coffee.  But  frest  I  put  my  slip 
pers  and  my  dress'  gown." 

She  lingered  some  moments  after  he  had 
gone  out  to  the  kitchen,  and  heard  him  strik 
ing  matches,  searching  the  ice-box  in  the 
butler's  pantry  and  banging  the  gas  range 
with  the  tea-kettle  and  other  utensils  in  un 
tutored,  masculine  manner  until,  her  resent 
ment  melting  to  amusement,  she  had  to  fol 
low  out. 

A  savory  smell  pervaded  the  place.  Senor 
da  Veiga  was  smiling  at  the  results  of  his 
labors.  Meat  and  drink  were  actually  pre 
paring,  as  at  a  magician's  touch.  It  only  re 
mained  to  lay  a  cloth  in  the  dining-room. 

The  amusement  of  da  Veiga  increased. 
"  That  Swedie  'ave  no  key,"  he  said,  after  a 
bit,  shaking  with  laughter.  "  She  'ave  no 
key  to  ope'  that  door  outside.  She  stay  cry 
there  all  the  night." 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  understood,"  said 
8  113 


'$  Carriage 


Alma.  "  She  is  not  coming  back.  She  gave 
warning.  She  went  to  take  care  of  some  one 
who  is  sick  —  a  cousin.  She  told  me  you 
had  not  paid  her  —  for  three  months  —  since 
she  came  to  work.  I  gave  her  twenty-five 
dollars  —  "  She  broke  off,  annoyed  at  the 
thought  of  the  anonymous  letter. 

Da  Veiga's  laughter  ceased  abruptly. 
"  You  did  pay  to  'er  ?  You  are  one  fool  ! 
What  right  she  'ad  to  go  'way  ?  " 

As  Alma  was  silent  he  said  no  further 
word,  and  when  they  presently  sat  down  to 
sup  he  seemed  again  in  very  good  humor. 

"  Now,  my  darling,  we  eat.  Though  I 
come  late,  yet  so  we  eat  well.  Querida,  give 
to  my  the  big  what  you  c.o\\faca  —  I  cut  the 
steak.  And  while  we  eat  I  tell  to  you,  my 
darling,  'ow  those  peoples  did  make  my  to 
stay  there  at  Deimonico's  until  near  eight, 
and  then  they  did  make  my  to  go  to  the 
'ouse  of  one  judge  that  will  to  buy  some 
stock  in  our  companeeyah.  And  there  I 
talk  to  them  like  one  diablo.  To-day, 
querida,  I  'ave  take  one  office  down  town. 
I  'ave  pay  rent  and  buy  carpet  and  desk  and 
114 


table  and  sofa.  I  'ave  spent  motch  money." 
He  divided  the  steak  slowly  in  two  unequal 
portions,  passed  a  plate  to  Alma  and  sighed. 
"  To-morrow  I  did  think  to  pay  the  rent, 
for  we  stay  yet  one  month  in  this  place. 
Then  I  did  think  for  we  go  to  Paris  in  that 
graty  Exesposition.  You  see  by  those  days 
my  companeeyah  'as  begun;  those  ships  'ave 
gone  to  load  with  that  beautiful  concha — 
what  you  call  madreperla.  I  close  my  office 
or  I  leave  one  boy.  We  go  in  that  graty 
Fair."  He  got  up  and  went  to  the  ice-box 
for  ice.  "'Ere  is  vare  warm,"  he  said,  and 
took  his  seat  again,  after  emptying  his  glass. 
"  'Ere  is  vare  warm,"  he  repeated,  as  he 
cut  deeper  into  the  larger  portion  of  meat  on 
his  own  plate.  Alma,  watching  with  fasci 
nated  eyes,  wondered  if  it  could  be  possible 
he  had  really  tasted  anything  since  morning. 
She  made  no  movement  to  take  food,  but 
presently  began  to  pour  the  coffee.  After 
this  she  watched  him  again,  until  he  caught 
her  eye  and  shouted  at  her  :  "  Why  you  not 
eat  ?  "  She  started,  and  clasped  her  hands  on 
her  bosom.  "  What  is  that?  "  he  demanded. 


"  Something — nothing — a  little  pain/'  she 
stammered.  "  It  seemed  to  stab  me.  It  is 
gone."  The  sharp  corner  of  the  stiff  enve 
lope  of  the  letter  in  her  bosom  had  reminded 
her.  Should  she  speak  of  it  now  or  wait 
until  morning  ? 

He  went  on  telling  his  plans.  "To-mor 
row,  querida,  I  must  go  early  down  town.  I 
do  motch  business.  I  sell  some  shares  of 
my  stock.  I  am  vare  sad  that  I  most  sell 
that,  but  I  most  'ave  money  for  we  pay  ex- 
espenses.  You  see  I  did  put  last  month 
motch  capital,  I  did  exespend  man'  'under' 
dollars.  I  did  send  man'  cablegramas  to 
South  America.  Gradill  did  I  exespend  to 
make  sure  my  concession.  Now  I  most  sell. 
£>uerida,  if  you  'ave  not  give  that  ooglie 
Swedie  those  twenty-five  dollars,  I  borrow 
from  you  and  I  borrow  more  seventy-five 
from  one  friend,  one  vare  nice  man,  and  so 
I  'ave  not  to  sell  that  stock.  But  now  it  is 
too  late."  He  reached  for  his  coffee  and 
put  a  great  many  lumps  of  sugar  into  the 
cup.  "  You  did  give  to  'er  all  you  did  'ave  ? 
Not  is  so,  querida  ?  " 

116 


'£  Carriage 


"  Oh,  there  is  a  little  car-fare  left,  per 
haps  ten  dollars,"  said  Alma,  jerkily. 

Da  Veiga  drew  another  deep  sigh  and  kept 
silence.  Alma,  sipping  her  coffee,  gazed  at 
her  plate.  She  felt  too  worn  with  the  day's 
mental  experiences  to  discuss  any  subject, 
momentous  or  trivial.  As  for  the  anony 
mous  letter,  there  would  be  time  enough  in 
the  morning.  If  the  Swede  had  complaint 
to  make,  let  her  come  in  person  and  with 
less  mystery. 

"  No,"  cried  da  Veiga,  suddenly,  and  in  a 
very  resolute  tone,  "  no,  querida,  I  will  not 
to  take  from  you  that  little  moneys.  I  sell 
my  stock.  Already  I  did  borrow  —  'o\v 
motch  I  did  borrow,  querida  ?  When  we  did 
marry  you  didjust  'ave  receive  your  moneys. 
Not  is  so  ?  One  'under'  and  fifty  dollars  ! 
Now  you  will  not  'ave  more  one  'under'  and 
fifty  until  one  month  —  maybe  more  long. 
Poor  my  darling  !  I  fill  shame  I  did  bor 
row  for  we  pay  some  bills."  His  plate 
was  quite  empty,  and  he  reached  for 
more  coffee.  "  I  go  to  get  my  cigarette 
'older,"  he  murmured,  in  melodious  tones, 
117 


'$  Damage 


and  rose  rather  heavily.  But  Alma  did  not 
8tir.  She  seemed  to  find  fascination  in  the 
plate  before  her.  Perhaps  she  was  consider 
ing  the  strangeness  of  this  honeymoon.  Da 
Veiga  came  back  and  sat  leaning  an  arm  on 
the  table  while  he  smoked  and  finished  his 
coffee. 

"  To-day,  my  darling,"  he  said  presently, 
"  I  did  pace  by  that  'ouse  of  your  aunt. 
What  fine  'ouse,  and  all  shut  up  !  I  did 
think  to  myself  what  pity  she  is  one  such  old 
diablo.  ^uerida^  why  you  don'  try  make 
frien'ship  with  your  aunt,  and  so  you  get 
some  moneys  from  'er  for  we  not  sell  our 
stock  ?  £$ueridat  I  fill  surry  to  sell  those 
stock,  which  should  be  more  thousands  dol 
lars.  Your  aunt  is  one  rich  woman  —  what 
she  miss  for  give  two  'under'  fifty,  maybe 
three  'under'  or  six  'under'  dollars,  and  take 
your  note  ?  Not  is  so,  querida  ?  Then  we 
go  in  that  graty  steamer  next  week." 

It  seemed  to  Alma  she  must  be  breathing 

very  audibly.     She  had  a  feeling  of  extreme 

exhaustion.      It  seemed  a  tremendous   effort 

to  draw  in  her  breath  or  expel  it.     To  form 

118 


'£  Carriage 


words  was  still  more  difficult.  They  fell 
slowly  from  her  lips  :  "  You  say  the  house 
is  shut.  My  aunt  is  away.  It  would  be 
hard  to  communicate  with  her." 

"  Why  you  cannot  write  one  letter  ?  " 
She  moved  back  her  chair  sharply  and  rose. 
Standing  so  for  an  instant  she  caught  sight 
of  a  white  face  and  a  white-gowned  figure  in 
the  glass  of  the  antique  sideboard.  The 
face,  as  colorless  as  the  gown,  had  eyes  more 
black  and  angry  than  she  had  ever  seen. 
And  it  was  her  own  face.  "  If  I  must  borrow 
money,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  vibrated 
strangely,  "  it  shall  be  from  a  stranger  rather 
than  from  any  relative."  Then  she  went 
quickly  from  the  room. 


119 


CHAPTER  XI 

STRANGE  REVELATIONS 

IT  was  lacking  a  minute  of  three  when 
she  stepped  from  the  elevator  and  went  to 
ward  the  street.  The  great  entrance  doors 
swung  noiselessly  before  and  after  her.  She 
lifted  her  eyes  from  the  hem  of  her  gray 
cloth  gown  where  she  fancied  a  stray  thread 
had  caught,  and  saw  coming  up  the  steps  the 
woman  she  had  seen  from  her  drawing-room 
window  the  day  before  loitering  on  the  op 
posite  side  and  glancing  up.  She  felt  posi 
tive  at  once  that  this  was  the  person. 

"  You  were  looking  for  me — for  Mrs.  da 
Veiga  ?  "  she  said. 

The  woman  had  reached  the  top  step  and 
paused  to  breathe  for  a  few  seconds.  Alma's 
perceptions,  quickened  rather  than  sluggish, 
as  on  the  previous  afternoon,  seized  swiftly 

121 


'£  Carriage 


on  certain  points  of  her  appearance.  For 
one  thing,  the  shabbiness  of  the  woman  now 
appeared  more  a  shabbiness  of  gait  and  man 
ner  than  of  attire  ;  for  another,  her  tall  and 
somewhat  angular  form  was  plainly  quivering 
with  excitement  and  vindictive  purpose  ;  so 
plainly,  indeed,  that  the  answer  she  present 
ly  gave  seemed  mild  'unto  falsity:  "I  was 
looking  for  a  lady  of  that  name." 

"  Will  you  come  up  to  my  apartment  ?  " 
said  Alma,  more  coldly.  "  I  am  quite  alone." 

No  further  words  passed  between  them 
until  they  had  gone  up  in  the  elevator  and 
Alma  had  led  the  way  to  her  drawing-room. 
The  woman  did  not  sit  at  once.  She 
walked  over  to  the  bow  window^  stood  there, 
and  holding  up  a  pair  of  eyeglasses  that  hung 
on  a  cord  round  her  neck,  took  a  long  look 
at  a  crayon  portrait  of  da  Veiga  above  the 
piano.  Then  she  sat  down  on  the  little  sofa. 

"You  have  no  idea,  I  suppose,  what  I 
wish  to  speak  to  you  about  ?  "  she  began, 
in  a  slow,  hard  voice,  as  if  she  were  arming 
herself  with  insolence  now  that  she  had 
gained  entrance  and  audience. 

122 


'£  Carriage 


Alma's  reply  was  not  of  a  kind  to  encour 
age.  "  I  presume  it  was  you  who  wrote  to 
me.  I  suppose  it  is  something  about  the 
servant  that  left  yesterday.  Of  course,  as 
she  gave  no  notice  -  " 

The  woman  threw  out  one  long  arm  with 
a  gesture  of  contempt  approaching  coarse 
ness.  "  Your  servant  !  "  she  cried.  "  You 
kept  a  servant  !  Well,  I  wonder  who  paid 
her  !  About  a  servant,  eh.  Do  you  know 
who  I  am?  I  am  a  victim  —  a  dupe  —  '  she 
sprang  to  her  feet  and  flung  out  her  other 
arm  toward  the  picture  over  the  piano  —  "  the 
dupe  —  one  of  the  dupes  of  that  —  that  scoun 
drel  !  And  you  —  you  are  another." 

Alma  sat  very  still  in  the  large  arm-chair  — 
da  Veiga's  favorite  chair  —  at  the  opposite 
side  of  the  room.  She  was  conscious  present 
ly,  of  an  arranged  feeling,  stiff  and  woodenish, 
such  as  she  had  felt  as  a  child  in  a  photo 
graph  gallery  posing  for  her  picture.  She 
was  cold,  too  ;  her  hands  were  quite  cold  and 
her  whole  body  seemed  transfixed.  It  was 
like  a  nightmare  she  had  experienced  once, 
when  she  wanted  to  speak,  to  move,  to  cry 
123 


'£  Carriage 


out,  and  yet  could  not.  She  remembered 
that  she  had  known  that  was  a  nightmare, 
and  had  seen  with  open  eyes  all  objects  in 
the  room  just  as  she  now  saw  the  veriest  un 
important  things  —  the  thread  on  the  bottom 
of  her  gown  which  she  had  meant  to  pick  off 
down  in  the  entrance  hall  ;  the  spot  that 
might  be  ink  —  or  wine  on  her  cuff;  the 
atom  of  dust  on  the  glass  of  the  tiny  watch 
in  her  parasol  handle.  And  then  she  heard 
the  woman's  voice  again,  this  time  less  stri 
dent. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  get  excited  ;  I  generally 
know  how  to  control  my  feelings.  And 
besides,  you  are  to  be  pitied  as  much  as  any 
one.  If  you  thought  you  were  not  married 
you'd  be  sorry  at  first,  perhaps  ;  but  after  a 
while  you  might  be  sorrier  if  you  really  were 
tied  to  him.  I  don't  know  if  that's  any 
consolation.  In  any  case,  our  positions  are 
about  equal.  For,  even  if  that  woman  he 
represented  to  me  to  be  in  Europe  had  died 
before  the  church  ceremony  at  All  Aspho 
dels',  my  interests  as  common-law  wife  will 
be  protected.  The  law  is  just.  He  never 
124 


'^  Carriage 


once  gave  up  his  home  with   me.     On   the 
night  of  that  wedding  he  was  with  me." 

She  paused  as  if  expecting  the  girl  to  cry 
out.  But  Alma  neither  spoke  nor  stirred. 
Her  pale  face  was  expressionless.  And  the 
other  went  on,  with  a  contraction  of  the 
mouth  muscles  and  a  moistening  of  her 
parched  lips  :  "  Yes,  on  the  night  of  that 
wedding.  Of  course,  I  only  knew  what  he 
told  me  when  he  came  in  —  came  home  at 
seven.  Said  a  cousin  of  his  —  a  second 
cousin,  who  happened  to  be  a  namesake  — 
had  arrived  in  this  country  and  had  married 
an  heiress.  He  had  met  him  at  the  Con 
sulate,  and  it  had  been  a  great  surprise. 
Pie  had  had  to  go  to  the  church  and  a  wed 
ding  breakfast  afterward,  and  he  had  kissed 

O  ' 

the  bride,  though  she  was  nothing  as  to 
looks.  He  told  what  they  had  eaten  and 
drunk  at  the  breakfast  and  everything  else  to 
me,  and  said  he  hadn't  enjoyed  it  without 
me.  He  had  wished  I  was  there,  and  was 
so  glad  to  get  home  and  take  off  his  coat 
and  drink  coffee.  He  would  spend  the 
evening  quietly  with  me,  from  seven  till 
125 


'£  Carriage 


nearly  eleven  ;  then  he  had  promised  to  go 
and  sleep  at  the  apartment  his  cousin  had 
taken  and  furnished,  while  the  bridal  couple 
went  to  Washington  on  their  wedding  trip. 
He  was  kinder  and  more  affectionate  than 
usual,  and  kept  talking  about  our  being 
married  by  a  minister  in  the  Fall.  He 
never  left  me  until  eleven  ;  then  he  was 
sleepy  and  tired,  and  grumbled  because  he 
had  to  get  up  from  the  bed  where  he  was 
having  a  nap  so  comfortably  and  go  out 
again.  It  is  hard  for  me  to  imagine  what 
excuse  a  man  could  possibly  make  to  a 
bride  for  such  an  absence  at  such  a  time  or 
for  returning  in  such  a  temper." 

She  laughed,  and  the  laugh  was  not  a 
good  one  to  hear.  The  sound  jarred  on 
Alma  with  such  force  as  partially  to  break 
the  nightmare  spell  and  restore  power  of 
utterance.  "  Who  are  you  ?  "  she  asked, 
faintly. 

"  Who    am   I  ?  "   the   woman   cried,  with 

fresh  fury.     "  Who  am    I  ?     I   am   the  wo 

man  that    found  him   sick   and  starving  in 

Paris,  that  nursed  him  through  a   long,  ter- 

126 


rible  fever  ;  that  never  left  him  night  or 
day ;  that  came  back  to  New  York  in  the 
steerage — you  hear  ? — the  steerage  of  the 
ship,  in  order  to  have  money  to  bring  him 
with  me ;  the  woman  that  he  vowed  by  his 
dead  mother's  grave  to  honor  and  protect. 
You  want  to  know  my  name  ?  It  is  Barbara 
— he  calls  me  Bebe — well,  just  as  much 
Barbara  da  Veiga  as  yours  is  Alma  da 
Veiga."  Again  she  paused  and  seemed  to 
expect  some  outburst,  but  none  came. 
"That's  the  name  I'm  known  by  over  there 
in  Twenty-fourth  street,"  she  went  on. 
"  They  pronounce  it  Veega.  That  was  his 
home  there  with  me,  in  Twenty-fourth 
street,  near  Eighth  avenue.  Perhaps  you 
know  the  neighborhood.  It  is  quiet  and 
decent ;  there  are  theatrical  people,  but  not 
the  bad  kind.  He  lived  there  until  this 
marriage — of  his  cousin — a  few  weeks  ago. 
After  that  he  explained  to  me  he  would 
have  to  sleep  at  their  apartment — so  that 
they  might  be  able  to  testify  to  his  blame 
less  character  when  he  began  his  suit  against 
his  first  wife  in  the  Autumn.  But  he  spent 
127 


>£  Carriage 


his  afternoons  and  evenings  at  home  as 
usual.  It  was  comfortable  —  he  liked  to  be 
there.  I  got  home  as  early  as  I  could. 
We  had  two  large  rooms  on  the  second  floor 
—  it  is  a  furnished-room  house.  In  the 
front  room  are  his  desk  and  the  sofa,  and 
there  is  a  large  alcove  off  with  the  bed.  In 
the  back  room  we  had  a  table  and  a  gas 
stove.  Between  the  rooms  are  two  closets 
with  running  water  and  an  ice-box.  Two 
people  can  live  very  comfortably  in  that 
way.  I  had  the  walls  all  covered  with 
pretty  pictures.  Then  it  was  very  conveni 
ent  —  the  running  water  and  all.  One  could 
save  a  great  deal  by  washing  handkerchiefs 
and  small  things.  That  night  after  he  had 
gone  —  that  wedding  night  —  I  felt  so  lonely 
I  stayed  up  till  two  o'clock,  and  washed  and 
ironed  so  many  little  articles  for  him." 
Yet  again  she  paused  and  waited  —  and  went 
on  :  "  It  was  mere  chance  that  my  suspi 
cions  were  aroused  by  a  man  following  him 
there  to  collect  a  bill  —  rent,  for  this  very 
apartment,  too.  I  happened  to  be  at  home. 
I  am  a  forewoman.  Two  people  have  two 
128 


ter'£  Carriage 


mouths  to  feed,  and  there  are  clothing  and 
other  expenses.  I  was  home,  and  the  man 
let  out  something  about  being  tired  of  call 
ing  and  being  put  off  by  da  Veiga  or  told 
that  he  wasn't  at  home.  f  In  a  few  days,' 
he  said,  f  if  that  rent  isn't  paid  you  will  get 
notice  to  vacate.'  Nine  hundred  a  year  ! 
A  good  rent  for  a  man  without  a  penny  of 
income  !  You  see  now  his  true  character." 

Alma  leaned  forward  and  cried  out  —  a 
queer,  guttural,  gasping  cry.  Then  she 
found  she  could  speak. 

"  I  wish/'  she  said,  distinctly,  "  that  you 
would  leave  this  room  at  once.  I  have  read 
of  such  creatures  as  you  —  and  their  lies." 

The  other  woman  sprang  to  her  feet, 
hesitated  and  sat  down  again.  "  I  am  not 
going  yet.  There  is  more  for  you  to  hear, 
and  you  had  better  hear  it." 

Alma  had  turned  her  face  '  away  ;  she 
turned  it  back  now  and  looked  at  this  other 
—  this  angular,  flaxen-haired,  keen-eyed  wo 
man  with  large  nose  and  pale  lips,  who  had 
come  with  him  from  Europe,  who  had  found 
him  starving  and  dying,  who  had  nursed 
9  129 


him  through  terrible  illness,  who  had  trav 
eled  in  the  steerage,  who  had  been  with  him 
for  four  long  hours  on  his  wedding  night. 
A  great  chill  was  beginning  to  shake  her. 
She  remembered  so  well  his  absence  during 
those  hours — how  he  accounted  for  it  by  the 
story  of  a  countryman,  recently  arrived,  who 
could  speak  no  English,  who  had  been  ar 
rested  by  mistake,  and  had  sent  for  him  to 
get  him  liberated ;  how  he  had  returned  at 
eleven,  how  strange  and  indifferent  his  con 
duct  had  been,  and  how  he  had  let  her  re 
tire  and  sat  smoking  his  cigarettes  long 
after  midnight  on  his  wedding  night  !  The 
chill  shook  her  from  head  to  foot.  She  re 
membered  the  story  of  Don  Ernesto,  who 
had  married  the  daughter  of  the  President 
of  a  republic  in  South  America — the  gossip 
about  his  spending  his  wedding  night  with 
the  Indian  woman,  Maria,  and  her  children, 
and  his  having  married  Dona  Elvira  merely 
to  stand  firm  with  her  father  and  succeed 
him  in  the  Presidency — the  story  that  had 
seemed  so  detestable  to  her  innocent  wisdom 
and  wise  innocence  of  fifteen.  The  chill  was 
130 


followed  by  a.  sort  of  moral  nausea,  in  some 
great  spasm  of  which  she  felt  that  she  might 
easily  eject  the  heart  from  her  body. 

"  The  sooner  you  know  ail  the  truth  the 
better,"  the  woman  persisted ;  "  the  main 
thing  is,  where  is  that  first  wife  ?  " 

"  Whom — what  do  you  mean  by  c  first 
wife  ? '  '  asked  Alma,  in  a  thick  voice. 

"  I  mean  the  Englishwoman  he  married  a 
few  years  ago  in  London.  She  owned 
some  property,  but  she  was  shrewd.  What 
did  she  want  with  a  penniless  adventurer 
whose  only  occupation  was  flirtations  with 
other  women  ?  She  left  him,  you  under 
stand.  Nobody  cared  for  him — nobody 
wanted  him.  That  was  how  I  had  pity  for 
him.  I  thought  he  would  reform  and  make 
a  good  Christian  man  if  he  had  a  chance. 
It  wasn't  that  I  wanted  any  one's  husband. 
He  was  alone,  adrift  in  the  world.  I  gave 
him  shelter  and  help.  Has  any  one  but  me 
a  right  to  him  ?  Has  any  one  else  done  as 
much  for  him  ?  Has  he  got  any  money  out 
of  you  yet — or  out  of  your  relatives  ?  You 
are  the  heiress,  I  suppose.  Perhaps  he  has 


'^  Carriage 


tried  and  not  succeeded.  As  for  that  other 
woman  —  he  has  her  picture  somewhere  here 
in  this  very  apartment.  He  told  me  that 
he  hated  her  so  that  he  spat  on  her  portrait 
and  cut  it  with  a  knife,  and  finally  put  his 
own  in  front  of  it  in  the  same  frame.  I 
think  it  is  that  one  on  the  piano.  Do  you 
mind  if  I  take  it  down  and  see  if  it  is 
there  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I  mind  what  you  do  ?  " 
asked  Alma,  in  the  same  thick  voice,  and 
shivering  as  she  spoke. 

The  woman  looked  round  the  room.  "  I 
can  stand  on  that  thing  ;  I  suppose  it's  the 
piano  stool,"  she  said,  in  a  matter-of-fact  way  ; 
"  I  am  tall  enough." 

Still  Alma  did  not  move.  Her  white  face 
was  turned  toward  the  other,  who  had  climbed 
up  and  was  leaning  over  against  the  piano 
top  and  lifting  the  heavy  frame.  The  wire 
fell  easily  from  the  gilt  hook  on  the  mould 
ing.  "  It  will  take  only  a  moment  to  see," 
she  said,  and  as  she  spoke  she  knelt  on  the 
Indian  rug  before  the  piano,  pulling  the  lit 
tle  nails  from  the  back  of  the  frame.  The 
132 


board  fell  out  softly  on  the  rug,  and  follow 
ing  the  board  came  a  picture  that  was  not 
the  crayon  of  da  Veiga.  It  was  an  old-fash 
ioned  photograph  enlarged  in  water-colors. 
She  held  it  up  triumphantly. 

"  You  see  how  he  cut  and  gashed  it,"  she 
said.  "  But  it  is  the  woman — his  wife.  On 
the  bottom  of  it,  here,  is  the  name,  Maria  da 
Veiga.  Do  you  want  to  look  at  it  closer  ? 

What's  the  matter  ?     You  ain't  fainting,  are 

5 » 
you  r 

Alma's  head  had  fallen  back  in  the  chair. 
Her  face  was  pallid  and  her  eyes  closed. 
"  No,"  she  said,  feebly,  "  I  am  not — faint 
ing.  But — I  see  no  good  in  discussing— 
these  matters.  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  will  ex 
cuse  me  now."  She  got  up  as  she  spoke  the 
last  word,  staggered  into  the  bedroom  and 
fell  on  the  bed.  Her  hat  fell  off,  and  she 
sat  up  again,  holding  her  parasol  tightly,  like 
a  drunken  person  who  would  not  give  up. 
She  heard  the  woman  putting  up  the  picture. 
And  after  what  might  have  been  seconds  or 
moments  or  hours,  for  all  that  she  could  tell, 
she  heard  her  ask  if  she  wanted  a  glass  of 
133 


£ter'g  Carriage 


water  or  brandy  or  anything.  And  after  an 
other  indefinite  period  she  heard  the  outer 
door  of  the  apartment  close  with  a  loud 
sound. 

She  sat  up  in  a  sort  of  ringing  silence  and 
listened  as  if  afraid  the  woman  might  return. 
After  a  little  she  got  off  the  bed  and  looked 
out  into  the  drawing-room  ;  the  picture  hung 
in  its  accustomed  place,  and  she  wondered  if 
it  could  all  have  been  an  ugly  dream.  She 
advanced  a  few  steps  and  saw  on  the  rug  sliv 
ers  of  wood  that  had  come  from  the  board 
back  of  the  picture,  together  with  two  small 
nails.  Stooping,  she  picked  up  these  and 
carried  them  out  to  the  kitchen.  Then  she 
came  back,  took  a  long  look  round  the  room 
and  fell  to  the  floor  by  the  little  sofa. 


134 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  NIGHT  OF  TRIAL 

SHE  was  walking  faster  than  she  had  ever 
before  walked  in  her  life.  She  had  put  on 
her  sailor  hat  again,  which  had  fallen  off 
when  she  fell  on  the  bed,  and  she  carried  the 
parasol  with  the  watch  in  the  handle.  It  was 
after  six,  and  the  last  train  by  which  she 
might  have  gone  to  seek  her  aunt  at  the  sea 
side  had  left  at  half-past  four.  She  was  not 
sure  what  she  meant  to  do,  except  that  she 
would  not  pass  the  night  in  the  apartment. 
She  thought  she  would  go  to  a  hotel.  But 
first  she  would  make  certain  that  the  woman 
had  told  the  truth.  She  would  go  to  Twenty- 
fourth  street  and  find  the  place. 

Her  entire  body  seemed  on  fire.  She  felt 
like  one  floating  through  a  field  of  flame. 
If  the  woman  had  spoken  untruths — but 
135 


'£  Carriage 


there  were  such  horrid  symptoms  of  truth  ! 
The  wedding  night,  the  coming  from  Europe, 
the  defaced  picture  back  of  his  own  picture  ! 
How  could  that  woman  have  invented  sug 
gestions  about  his  trying  to  get  money  from 
—  her  relatives  ?  It  seemed  to  her  that  she 
flew  on  her  way  in  a  sort  of  sirocco.  It  was 
a  close,  humid  August  night,  but  she  was  hot 
with  dry  fever  heat  —  the  suffocating  heat  of 
anger,  bitter,  impotent,  raging  anger,  like 
that  of  a  child  locked  in  a  room.  Where 
was  he  at  that  moment  ?  Was  he  over  there 
in  Twenty-fourth  street  —  with  the  very  wo 
man  who  had  denounced  him  ?  Why  had 
she  not  made  the  woman  say  if  she  still  in 
tended  to  —  protect  and  succor  him  ?  She 
flew  on  across  the  square,  across  Broadway. 
She  did  not  know  or  care  whether  she  passed 
one  person  or  a  thousand  persons.  She  was 
soon  in  Twenty-fourth  street,  a  street  of 
queer  inhabitants.  The  sidewalks  were 
crowded  with  loiterers,  but  she  saw  none 
clearly.  Under  the  elevated  railway  and  on 
through  the  next  block  and  on  into  the  next 
she  flew.  And  there  she  stopped,  suddenly 
136 


remembering  the  woman  had  not  told  her 
the  house  number.  She  must  inquire  at 
every  door  in  the  block.  She  leaned  against 
a  railing  for  a  moment,  then  went  on,  then 
stopped  again.  On  the  opposite  side,  farther 
down,  almost  at  the  end,  coming  slowly  along, 
pausing,  turning,  ascending  the  steps,  open 
ing  the  door  with  a  latchkey,  she  saw  da 
Veiga.  There  was  no  mistaking  his  figure 
and  carriage. 

At  that  instant  she  felt  as  if  herbody  were 
being  compressed  in  one  of  those  old  six 
teenth-century  instruments  of  torture  that  she 
had  seen  in  pictures. 

After  a  long  while  she  went  on  across  the 
block,  looking  up  at  the  second-story  win 
dows  of  that  house,  with  their  old-fashioned 
green  slat  shutters.  She  got  aboard  a  car, 
and  by-and-by  saw  that  she  was  at  Fifty- 
ninth  street  near  the  Park.  Alighting,  she 
went  into  the  Park.  It  was  still  quite  light. 
She  walked  through  to  Fifth  avenue  and 
kept  on  eastward.  Before  long  she  found 
herself  on  the  elevated  railway,  riding 
southward  again.  She  rode  to  the  end,  got 
137 


'£  st^arriagt 


off  and  took  a  boat  that  went  some  place 
where  it  was  brighter  and  noisier  than  at  the 
South  Ferry.  She  came  back  in  the  same 
boat  and  traveled  up  to  Forty-second  street. 
The  next  she  knew  she  was  at  the  Grand 
Central  Station,  caught  in  a  swarming  crowd 
that  had  just  come  from  some  train. 

The  stream  swirled  her  over  across  the 
street  to  a  hotel  entrance,  and  she  went  in 
and  up  to  the  parlor.  While  the  boy  had 
gone  to  get  a  card  for  her  to  register  she  sat 
where  she  could  see  herself  in  a  mirror. 
Through  all  her  mental  confusion  the  instinct 
of  gentility  impressed  her  with  the  necessity 
that  her  hat  should  be  properly  adjusted,  her 
hair  neatly  arranged  and  her  expression  com 
posed.  The  flush  in  her  face  was  but  natural  in 
the  intense  Midsummer  heat.  Other  instincts 
—  largely  of  self-preservation,  perhaps  — 
caused  her  to  write  her  name  "  Mrs.  A.  Syl 
vester  "  and  for  address  merely  "  City." 

The  room  assigned  her  was  small,    with 

one  window  giving  on  an  inner  court.      It 

was  not  very  high  up,  and  kitchen  sounds  as 

cended   incessantly.     The    heat   was    great. 

138 


'£  Carriage 


She  had  an  idea  that  if  she  turned  out  the  gas, 
removed  her  clothing  and  lay  down  on  the 
bed  she  might  feel  calmer.  The  night  was 
before  her  in  which  to  think  out  what  to  do 
and  prepare  herself  to  do  it.  Thus  far  she 
saw  but  one  course  —  to  confront  him  with 
what  she  had  heard  and  insist  on  knowing 
the  truth.  Had  he  ever  married  any  other 
woman  ?  Who  and  what  was  Maria  da 
Veiga  ?  What  rights,  if  any,  had  Barbara  da 
Veiga  ?  Was  there  such  a  person  as  Alma 
da  Veiga  ?  These  questions  must  all  be 
settled.  Until  she  had  his  reply  to  them  she 
would  do  nothing  rash.  She  was  glad  there 
had  been  no  train  to  the  seaside.  She  felt 
that  she  did  not  wish  to  go  to  her  aunt  until 
she  had  heard  his  answer.  In  the  morning 
she  would  go  back  to  the  apartment  and  con 
front  him  —  "  confront  "  was  precisely  the 
word.  It  gave  her  a  sense  of  resoluteness  to 
repeat  it.  She  wished  she  could  sleep  all 
night  and  waken  strong  and  composed  in  the 
morning,  but  the  heat  was  intolerable.  She 
tossed  from  side  to  side  as  the  hours  wore  on 
toward  midnight,  and  wondered  if  he  had  yet 


'£  Carriage 


arrived  at  the  apartment  and  found  her  gone. 
She  wondered  what  he  would  do  ;  would  he 
make  any  outcry  —  ask  any  questions  of  any 
one  ?  Would  he  have  already  been  told  by 
the  woman  Barbara  that  Alma  had  learned 
such  things  from  her  ?  Would  he  be  wait 
ing  her  return  ?  Would  he  go  out  to  look 
for  her?  What  would  he  say  in  the  morn 
ing  when  she  returned  ?  What  should  she 
first  say  to  him  ?  Suppose  he  should  break 
down  and  confess  that  this  horrible  thing  was 
true  —  that  he  had  been  married  before  and 
that  his  wife  was  in  Europe  ?  What  must 
she  do  then  ?  Must  she  go  to  her  Aunt 
Sevenbanks  —  or  first  to  a  lawyer  ?  Should 
she  ask  for  a  divorce  or  for  an  annulment 
of  her  marriage  ?  How  could  it  be  kept 
secret?  How  could  the  frightful  and  intol 
erable  vulgarity  of  newspaper  publicity  be 
avoided  ?  How  could  she  escape  seeing  her 
name  in  print  ?  Would  the  lawyer  advise 
her  to  go  to  Dakota  ?  She  closed  her  eyes  and 
breathed  hard.  If  sleep  would  only  come  ! 
With  her  eyes  shut  she  seemed  to  see 
everywhere  the  letter  "  D  "  blazing  at  her  — 
140 


'£  Carriage 


and  sometimes  the  word  "  Dakota,"  and 
sometimes  the  word  "  divorce."  Once  worn 
to  exhaustion  she  seemed  to  have  sunk  out 
of  the  heat  into  darkness  —  the  darkness  of  a 
cool  and  illimitable  tropical  wood.  She  was 
a  child  again,  lost  in  that  equatorial  forest  as 
once  when  she  was  five  years  old.  And  Pepe 
and  Chavela,  the  servants,  were  searching  as 
then  for  her,  half-crazed  at  their  own  negli 
gence.  And  she  was  afraid  of  the  darkness 
and  was  praying,  as  she  had  often  heard 
Chavela  pray  to  the  Holy  Virgin,  to  bring 
some  one  to  find  her  ;  and  a  huge  form  came 
out  of  the  shadow  of  a  tree,  a  horrible  shape 
of  wild  beast  lifting  a  tremendous  paw  like  a 
bear's  with  which  to  fell  her  to  the  ground  ; 
and  the  head  seemed  to  turn  strangely 
familiar,  and  the  eyes  became  daVeiga's  eyes. 
And  she  awoke,  gasping. 

She  lay  down  again,  for  it  was  only  two 
o'clock  by  the  parasol  watch.  Other  little 
intervals  of  dozing  came  to  her.  Sometimes 
she  saw  the  interior  of  those  Twenty-fourth 
street  rooms.  Da  Veiga  was  there  at  ease  in 
slippers  and  smoking  jacket.  The  woman, 
141 


'g  Carriage 


Barbara,  was  darning  socks  for  him.  Some 
times  she  was  in  a  court  of  law,  with  greedy 
eyes  devouring  her,  newspaper  artists  sketch 
ing  her,  a  lawyer  questioning  her,  and  the 
judge's  voice,  deciding  deliberately,  and  in  a 
tone  that  terrified  her  :  "  The  marriage  is 
null  and  void."  Sometimes  she  saw  her  Aunt 
Sevenbanks,  bowed,  silent,  overwhelmed 
with  disgrace.  Then  the  woman  Barbara 
would  reappear,  tall,  angular,  keen-eyed 
and  large-nosed,  resolute  and  self-justifying. 
"  Who  else  wanted  him  ?  I  succored  him. 
Who  else  had  a  right  to  him  ?  "  Sometimes 
huge  heads  seemed  thrusting  themselves 
against  her,  half-human,  with  under  lips  dis 
torted  by  inserted  bits  of  stone  or  bone. 
And  a  hoarse  whisper,  issuing  from  nowhere, 
yet  everywhere,  proclaimed,  "  The  Bugres— 
that  live  on  their  fellow-men  —  the  devourers 
of  their  kind  —  the  Bugres."  And  again  she 
was  sinking  in  dark  waters  over  which  black 
boats  were  floating,  with  white  sails  made 
from  huge  newspapers  printed  in  enormous 
type,  with  the  words  "  Dakota  "  and  "di 
vorce  "  everywhere. 

142 


Toward  daybreak  she  might  have  slept  an 
hour  or  two,  dreaming  then  a  curious  medley 
of  comedy  and  tragedy  in  which  her  Aunt 
Ester  and  her  Aunt  Sevenbanks,  da  Veiga 
and  Barbara,  herself  and  the  Swedish  servant 
were  paired  in  a  sort  of  procession,  until 
running  toward  them  at  great  speed  came  the 
woman  of  the  gashed  portrait,  wringing  her 
hands  and  sobbing  that  her  face  had  been  de 
stroyed.  Then  Alma  sat  up  in  bed  and 
looked  at  the  window.  It  was  daylight,  and 
an  unbearable  clatter  of  dishes  came  up  from 
the  restaurant  kitchen.  She  reached  for  the 
parasol  and  saw  that  it  was  six  o'clock.  She 
rose  and  dressed.  She  had  no  comb  or 
brush,  but  smoothing  the  sides  of  her"  hair 
with  her  hands  she  found  that  her  hat  would 
cover  the  worst  of  her  disarray.  Her  face 
looked  swollen  even  after  much  cold  water, 
but  she  took  special  pains  with  her  collar 
and  cuffs.  The  servants  were  astir  in  the 
halls,  but  she  met  no  one  else  as  she  went 
out.  She  knew  that  the  outside  doors  of  the 
apartment  house  would  be  open,  and  if  the 
elevator  were  not  yet  running,  so  much  the 


'g  Carriage 


better.  She  could  enter  unobserved  and 
walk  up-stairs.  The  morning  air  was  cool 
and  refreshing,  and  her  strength  and  courage 
returned. 

She  ran  up  the  stairway  so  lightly  that 
she  was  hardly  out  of  breath  at  all  when  she 
opened  the  apartment  door  with  her  key  and 
walked  down  the  passage.  The  gas  was 
burning,  as  it  had  probably  burned  all  night, 
in  the  drawing-room.  In  the  dining-room 
the  rising  sun  was  glaring  on  everything, 
and  full  in  the  glare,  at  the  table,  in  his  ac 
customed  place,  with  a  cup  of  black  coffee 
before  him  and  his  cigarette  holder  in  his 
mouth,  in  neglige,  as  usual,  and  smoking 
and  shedding  slow  tears,  sat  da  Veiga.  He 
sat  still  and  looked  at  her  ;  then  suddenly 
he  uttered  a  loud  wail  of  interrogation  : 

"  With  what  man  you  did  go  'way  ?  " 


144 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ALMA    CONFRONTS    HER    HUSBAND 

SHE  crossed  the  room  and  sat  down  facing 
him.  Her  glance  then  fell  on  another  ob 
ject — his  razor,  half-open,  on  the  table — and 
her  first  words  were  commonplace.  "  You 
were  going  to  shave  ?  " 

He  answered  with  the  cigarette-holder  in 
his  mouth  :  "  I  did  think  to  cut  my  throat ; 
then  I  did  think  to  wait  and  see."  He  drew 
a  sobbing  breath.  "  I  never  did  think  my 
wife  to  go  and  leave  my." 

"  When  you  say  *  wife,'  "  said  Alma,  with 
a  composure  that  was  like  a  numbness,  "  to 
whom  do  you  refer  ?  Myself,  or  one  of  the 
other  two  ?  Is  it  Barbara — or  is  it  the 
woman  whose  picture  is  in  there  ?  " 

Da  Veiga  seemed  not  to  have  understood. 
He  gazed  at  her  with  eyes  in  which  a  dark 
flame  was  kindling. 

10  145 


ter'£  Carriage 


"  You  look  vare  fine,"  he  said,  with  a  dull 
sort  of  fury  ;  "  vare  nice  you  look,  with  that 
white,  small  'at  and  those  red  mouth.  Nice 
little  parasol  with  one  watch  —  ail  so  fine. 
Why  did  you  come  back  ?  "  The  fury  in 
creased. 

"  Why  did  you  come  back  ?  "  he  shouted, 
with  a  look  of  hatred. 

"  You  have  not  answered  my  question," 
said  Alma,  ignoring  his  temper.  "  Perhaps 
you  did  not  understand  me  —  it  is  foolish  to 
say  insulting  things.  You  know  perfectly 
well  why  I  left  this  house  last  night  and 
went  alone  to  a  hotel.  The  woman  who 
calls  herself  Barbara  da  Veiga  must  have  told 
you  she  was  here  yesterday  afternoon  and 
that  she  informed  me  I  was  not  your  wife. 
You  could  not  expect  me  to  remain  after 
that.  I  had  not  intended  to  return,  but  it 
seemed  only  right  to  give  you  a  chance  to 
defend  yourself.  In  any  event,  it  will  be 
for  my  lawyer  to  look  into  the  matter  at 
once.  The  record  of  any  marriage  between 
yourself  and  the  Maria  da  Veiga  whose  por 
trait  hangs  behind  your  own  -  " 
146 


'g  Carriage 


He    sprang    up     with     an    imprecation. 
"  Who  did  tell  to  you  -  ?  " 

"  She  says  you  call  her  Bebe  -  " 
"  That  diablo  !  Oh—"  He  fell  into  his 
seat  again.  "  ^uerida,  I  did  wish  to  con 
fess  all  to  you.  I  did  tell  to  you  'ow  she 
will  that  I  marry  with  'er  and  'ow  she  try  to 
make  my  live  always  with  'er.  I  did  tell  to 
you  that  she  care  for  my  when  I  'ave  one 
fiebre  and  did  come  with  my  from  Paris.  I 
'ave  try  so  'ard  to  break  from  'er  —  I  'ave 
give  'er  money  —  vare  motch  moneys  'ave  I 
give.  All  that  I  can  do  to  'er  for  make  we 
separate  good  friends.  Still,  she  is  one  dia 
blo.  She  write  to  my,  she  come,  she  'ang  on 
my  back.  Now  she  try  for  make  my  wife 
to  leave  my.  I  did  tell  to  'er  long  months 
past,  when  we  did  come  in  that  graty  ship,  I 
did  tell  to  'er  I  cannot  marry  with  'er.  I  did 
tell  'er  one  lie  —  'ow  I  did  'ave  already  one  wife. 
I  did  show  to  'er  one  picture  of  one  lady  in 
that  Argentine  —  one  lady  did  marry  with  my 
cousin.  I  did  say  that  was  my  wife,  Maria. 
Querida^  I  am  one  poor  man,  vare  sad,  with 
motch  troubles.  I  did  try  so  'ard,  and  I  did 
147 


'£  Carriage 


think  she  let  my  be.  She  is  one  old  woman, 
with  one  big  nose  ;  vare  ooglie  is  she,  and  I 
never  did  love  'er.  Man'  letters  I  receive 
from  'er  and  she  baig  and  baig  I  go  there. 
I  go  yesterday  and  she  say  she  go  'way  —  in 
Europa,  and  she  want  money.  I  'ave  to 
give  to  'er  motch  money.  Now  I  am  poor  — 
I  need  for  we  pay  exespenses.  'Ow  I  can 
give  to  'er  that  money  for  to  go  in  Europa  ?  " 
Fresh  tears  came  to  his  eyes.  "  All  I  'ave 
pray  for  in  this  world  is  for  we  live  'appy 
and  good.  I  did  tell  you,  querida,  'ow  I  did 
do  motch  wickedness,  and  now  I  do  no  more. 
Last  night  I  did  read  in  my  libra  de  devocionesy 
as  my  mother  did  tell  to  me,  and  I  did  pray 
to  'eaven  to  bring  back  my  wife." 

Alma  rose  and  went  into  the  drawing- 
room  and  turned  out  the  gas.  He  followed 
and  watched  her.  She  went  on  into  the 
bedroom,  took  off  her  hat  and  the  bodice  of 
her  dress  and  put  on  a  dressing  sacque, 
then  began  to  comb  her  hair.  He  followed 
and  sat  on  the  bed.  "  You  will  not  speak 
to  my,  querida  ?  "  he  inquired,  piteously. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  just  at  present," 
148 


'g  Carriage 


she  answered,  and  went  on  combing  her 
hair.  She  was  not  quite  sure  what  she 
thought  of  his  explanations.  She  was  still 
suffering  moral  nausea,  though  not  as  in 
tensely  as  the  day  before.  One  of  the  two 
had  told  falsehoods  ;  there  was  untruth  on 
one  side  or  the  other,  even  if  the  tragic  as 
pect  were  eliminated  and  his  fault  reduced 
to  a  simple,  ugly  intrigue  of  the  past  with 
the  woman  Barbara.  She  felt  a  natural 
hatred  for  this  woman,  who  had  caused  her 
such  night-long  suffering,  and  still  her  sense 
of  justice  framed  excuses  for  the  poor  crea 
ture. 

"  I  am  vare  sad,  querida"  said  da  Veiga, 
mournfully,  "  that  I  did  tell  to  you  one  lie." 

"  One  lie  ?  "  She  gave  the  numeral  em 
phasis.  She  was  still  brushing  her  hair.  It 
seemed  to  her  there  had  never  been  so  many 
tangles  in  it.  She  turned  to  look  at  him. 

"  I  did  tell  to  you  that  she  was  dead.  I 
am  vare  sad.  I  should  tell  to  you  she  write 
to  my  and  worry  my  man'  times.  Now  you 
will  not  believe.  But  I  prove  to  you." 

"  Yes,"  said  Alma,  "  I  shall  require  proof." 
149 


^  Carriage 


She  felt  a  sort  of  regret  that  she  could  be  so 
unmoved  ;  she  knew  from  this  that  she  had 
no  love,  nothing  but  pity  for  him.  "  I  shall 
require  proof,"  she  repeated,  "  that  I  have  a 
right  to  remain  here  ;  proof  that  you  never 
have  married  any  other  woman.  You  must 
satisfy  me  of  that."  She  had  finished  brush 
ing  her  hair,  and  was  coiling  it  at  the  back  of 
her  head.  "  You  might  pour  me  a  cup  of 
coffee,"  she  added. 

Da  Veiga  got  up  from  the  bed  and  pre 
ceded  her  back  to  the  dining-room.  She 
saw  that  he  still  carried  the  razor  with  him, 
and  remarked  that  he  would  better  put  it 
away  unless  he  meant  to  shave  at  once. 

Two  hours  later  she  sat  alone  again.  He 
had  gone  down  town  to  try  to  realize  some 
thing  on  his  pearl  fishery  concession  stock. 
He  had  reiterated  his  sore  need  of  money  for 
current  expenses  and  also  to  give  the  woman, 
so  that  she  would  go  abroad  and  leave  them 
in  peace. 

Alma  sat  reflecting  and  trying  to  decide 
on  a  course  of  action.  Should  she  try  to 

get  an  advance  from  the  lawyer  —  her  aunt's 
150 


'£  Carriage 


man  of  business  —  who  had  charge  of  her 
own  small  quarterly  income  ?  Supposing 
she  obtained  sufficient  for  the  woman,  Bar 
bara  —  she  wondered  how  much  would  be  re 
quired.  A  queer  pity  was  in  her  heart  for 
da  Veiga,  inspired  in  great  measure  by  his 
financial  distress.  It  .seemed  to  her  that 
however  great  his  fault,  she  could  not  desert 
him  just  now. 

With  a  sudden  sensation  of  exhaustion 
she  lay  down  and  slept.  She  did  not  wake 
until  he  came  home. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

A    TALK    WITH     MR.  TRAVIS 

SHE  had  once  before  had  occasion  to  go 
alone  to  call  on  the  lawyer,  whose  office  was 
in  lower  Broadway.  That  other  time  she 
had  been  driven  down  in  her  aunt's  coupe 
— it  was  Winter — and  she  had  had  only  to  go 
up  in  the  elevator  and  send  in  her  card  to  Mr. 
Travis.  This  time  there  was  no  coupe,  but 
a  tiresome  walk  from  the  City  Hall  station. 
The  trucks  and  the  cable-cars  were  thick, 
and  the  men  on  the  sidewalks  jostled  and 
elbowed  her,  and  were  altogether  brutes. 
She  felt  flushed  and  cross  by  the  time  she 
reached  the  office.  But  Travis  having  not 
yet  returned  from  luncheon,  she  had  to  wait 
awhile  in  his  private  room,  and  when  he 
finally  arrived  she  was  much  cooler.  He 
was  a  tall,  lank  man  with  a  beard  and  a 
153 


'&  Carriage 


melancholy  smile,  but  he  sighed  contentedly 
like  one  of  honest  intentions. 

"  Good  morning,  Miss  Sylves  —  oh,  I  beg 
your  pardon,  you  married  a  Spaniard  —  de  — 
de  -  " 

"  South  American,"  she  corrected.  "  My 
name  is  da  Veiga." 

He  smiled  tranquilly.  "  Rather  informal, 
though,  wasn't  it  ?  I  mean,  you  didn't  go 
in  for  any  of  the  fashionable  nonsense  that 
uses  up  so  much  money  these  hard  times." 

"  Quite  true,"  she  answered,  with  calm 
indifference.  "  Speaking  of  money,  Mr. 
Travis,  that  is  what  I  came  down  for.  I 
want  some  —  ahead  of  time,  you  know  ;  that 
is,  if  I  can  get  it." 

The  lawyer  lifted  his  eyebrows.  "  Why 
—  "  he  said,  in  a  vague  tone. 

"  It  can  be  managed  in  some  way,  can't 
it?  "she  insisted  with  a  little  impatience. 
"  You  see,  if  one  wanted  to  go  over  to  Paris, 
for  example,  it  would  cost  a  trifle.  Senor 
da  Veiga,"  she  colored  slightly,  "  has  not 
much  to  spare  just  now.  He  is  engrossed 
heart  and  soul  and  pocketbook  in  the  new 
154 


company  he  has  organized.  A  pearl  fishery 
company,  you  know.  It  is  going  to  be  a 
great " 

"  Pearl  fishery  ?  Where  ?  "  The  lawyer 
was  interested. 

"  Why,  South  America — an  island  off  the 
coast — he  came  to  New  York  to  form  the 
company." 

"  Incorporated  ?  "  the  gentleman  inquired. 

She  hesitated.     "  I  believe  so." 

Mr.  Travis  leaned  his  elbow  on  his  desk 
and  rested  his  face  on  his  palm.  He  re 
garded  her  with  eyes  of  mild  scrutiny. 
"Well,  then,"  he  observed,  "you  didn't  do 
so  badly,  after  all,  did  you  ?  I  had  an  idea 
you  married  one  of  those — well,  usual  for 
eign  counts,  you  know.  There  was  a  title, 
wasn't  there  ?  " 

"  Senor  da  Veiga  inherits  a  title,"  said 
Alma,  with  a  little  girlish  stiffness.  "  But  he 
is  an  ardent  republican.  We  never  use  it. 
Count  Geraldina  is  the  title,"  she  added. 

"  Geraldina."  The  lawyer  repeated  the 
name  in  a  meditative  way.  The  melancholy 
expression  unhidden  by  his  beard  gave  no 
155 


tei;'0  Carriage 


clue  to  his  thoughts.  He  might  have  been 
considering  irrelevant  questions,  or  he  might 
have  been  smiling  inwardly  at  the  symptoms 
so  familiar  to  the  practiced  eye  and  ear,  so 
misleading  to  others.  He  could  have  told 
of  so  many  cases  where  the  devotion  was 
most  aggressively  apparent,  the  attachment 
most  strenuously  insisted  on,  the  excess  —  or 
access  —  of  loyalty  most  vividly  displayed  on 
the  very  eve  of  the  tragic  denouement  —  of  the 
skeleton's  discovery.  "  Well,"  he  said,  sud 
denly,  "and  you  want  some  money  to  waste 
in  Paris  ?  By  the  way,  I  haven't  inquired 
how  Mrs.  Sevenbanks  is  —  and  that  reminds 
me,  I  have  a  letter  here  for  you,  from  Paris, 
I  think.  It  has  been  here  some  time."  He 
got  up  and  went  to  a  small  safe.  Alma  kept 
silence  until  he  had  finished  with  the  combi 
nation.  Then  she  said,  frankly  enough, 
"  You  know  my  Aunt  Sevenbanks  did  not 
approve  of  my  marriage,  and  I  have  not  seen 
her  since  that  time.  She  is  at  the  seashore, 
I  suppose." 

He  closed  the  safe,  came  back  and  handed 
her  a  letter.     The  blood  crept  into  her  face 
156 


'£  Carriage 


at  the  superscription.  "  From  my  aunt, 
Mrs.  Harding  —  addressed  to  my  maiden 
name  —  I  suppose  she  forgot  —  she  must  have 
heard  —  with  your  permission."  She  tore 
open  the  envelope  nervously.  There  were 
but  a  few  lines  in  the  neat  Spanish  hand,  as 
suring  "  dearest  Alma  "  that  if  she  felt  like 
coming  across  to  join  the  writer  she  would 
be  most  welcome  at  any  instant,  and  to  be 
sure  to  write.  But  there  was  also  a  draft  for 
a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  "  Perhaps  after 
all  I  shall  not  need  the  advance  I  came  to 
ask  for,"  said  Alma,  showing  him  the 
draft. 

He  cleared  his  throat.  "  Now  that  was 
thoughtful  of  her.  But  this  pearl  fishing 
company  that  you  spoke  of.  I  wonder  if 
I  know  any  of  the  men  in  it.  Who  are  the 
directors  ?  I  suppose  it  is  no  secret." 

Alma  remembered  there  was  a  Mr.  Deane. 

"  Not  Wilson  Deane  ?  I  know  him 
well.  But  he  has  been  in  Europe  these 
eight  or  ten  months,  at  the  baths  —  I  forget 
which.  It  must  be  some  other." 

"  No,"  she  said,  a  little  irritably,  "  I  am 
157 


Jbpifcegter'g  Carriage 


sure  it  is  Wilson  Deane.  And  there  is  a 
Mr.  Shellingworth  and  George  Stone  -  " 

"  George  Stone  ?  I  know  him,  too. 
Funny  how  quiet  it  has  been  kept  !  I  gen 
erally  hear  a  good  deal  about  such  things. 
The  newspapers  haven't  got  on  to  it." 

"  I  don't  know  —  I  never  read  news 
papers,"  said  Alma.  "  They  make  one's 
arms  ache  so  to  hold  them." 

He  laughed.  "  A  new  objection.  I 
thought  you  were  going  to  say  they  print 
such  horrid  crimes."  His  pensive  gaze  fol 
lowed  her  movements  reluctantly  as  she  got 
up  to  go.  "  I  am  glad  to  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you  and  giving  you  that 
letter,  and  also  to  have  learned  about  the  — 
the  enterprise  that  Senor  da  Veiga  —  is  that 
right  ?  I  never  can  pronounce  Spanish  -  " 

"  That's  right,"  said  Alma,  with  a  smile 
that  was  not  by  any  means  care-free.  He  let 
her  out  direct  by  the  private  door  and  went 
back  to  his  desk.  Alone  in  the  hall  and  un 
observed,  she  stooped  to  refasten  a  shoelace. 
On  her  way  to  the  elevator  she  had  to  pass 
the  open  door  of  the  larger  office.  Travis 
158 


'0  Carriage 


was  there  talking  with  another  gentleman, 
not  his  partner.  They  were  laughing,  with 
unlighted  cigars  in  their  mouths.  She  won 
dered  a  little  that  the  lawyer  would  care  to 
talk  freely  with  a  man  who  kept  his  hat  on 
and  tipped  it  over  on  one  side  and  used 
coarse  language.  "  Hang  it,  Travis,"  she 
heard  him  say,  "  I  tell  you  I  never  heard  of 
the  fellow  or  any  such  scheme.  I  believe 
it's  all  a  fake." 

She  had  to  hurry  to  reach  the  bank  before 
three  o'clock.  The  teller  knew  her  and 
there  would  be  no  delay.  From  the  very 
instant  of  possessing  the  draft  she  had  been 
resolved  on  a  certain  course  —  to  go  to  the 
woman  Barbara  and  offer  her  a  hundred 
dollars  with  which  to  go  abroad,  and  to  give 
the  other  fifty  to  da  Veiga.  He  had  said 
that  fifty  would  see  him  through  until  he 
got  another  remittance  from  South  America 
—  his  coffee  money.  The  only  thing  for  their 
peace  of  mind,  he  had  convinced  her,  was  to 
have  the  woman  Barbara  on  the  other  side 
of  the  ocean. 


159 


CHAPTER  XV 

"  DIABLO  !  " 

IT  was  hardly  four  when  she  reached 
Twenty-fourth  street.  The  servant  who 
opened  the  door  said  that  "  Mrs.  Veega " 
would  soon  be  home,  and  there  was  a  parlor 
to  wait  in.  Alma  had  waited  nearly  an  hour 
when  the  front  door  opened  and  the  fair- 
haired  Amazon  came  in. 

"  I  wish  to  see  you,"  said  Alma,  stepping 
into  the  hall.  "  May  I  go  up-stairs  with 
you  ?  "  It  flashed  on  her  how  oddly  their 
positions  were  reversed  since  that  other  after 
noon.  But  she  was  so  full  of  her  own  plan 
that  she  did  not  mind. 

"  Oh,  it's  you  ?  "  The  woman  paused  on 
the  staircase.  "  Come  up,"  she  said,  author 
itatively. 

When  the  door  was  closed  Alma  looked 
11  161 


'g  Carnage 


round  the  room.  Everything  was  as  it  had 
been  described  to  her  :  the  desk,  the  alcove, 
the  bed,  the  closets  and  the  ice-box.  Da 
Veiga's  silver-handled  umbrella  stood  in  a 
corner.  Under  the  desk  was  a  pair  of  enor 
mous  slippers.  This  gave  her  a  shock. 
There  were  pictures  on  the  wall.  The  doors 
were  open  through  to  the  other  room,  where 
were  the  dining-table  and  the  gas  stove. 
Everything  was  true. 

Alma  coughed  faintly,  to  gain  time.  She 
lacked  words  for  a  beginning.  The  purse 
in  her  hand,  in  which  she  had  separately  the 
fifty  and  the  hundred  dollar  rolls,  felt  a 
clumsy,  brazen  thing. 

"  I  wondered,"  said  Barbara,  after  her 
caller  was  seated,  "  how  you  treated  him 
that  night  when  he  went  back  to  your  apart 
ment."  She  smiled  grimly.  "  He  was  here 
till  quite  late.  I  said  nothing  until  he  was 
leaving.  Then  I  said,  '  Yes,  go  to  the  other 
one  now.  Perhaps  she'll  give  you  a  warmer 
reception  —  when  she  knows  about  your  first 
marriage  and  what  you  owe  to  me.'  He 
only  laughed  and  answered,  *  Bebe,  you 
162 


'£  Damage 


know  well  before  God  we  are  'onorablc. 
Not  long  off  we  marry  in  church.  Then 
we  live  'appy.  Bebe,  you  are  my  all  ;  you 
will  not  forsake  my.'  He  did  not  come 
yesterday.  I  was  afraid  at  moments  that  — 
that  he  might  have  killed  you.  The  pistol 
is  here,  but  then  he  had  the  razor." 

Alma  trembled  for  an  instant.  <c  Why 
should  he  harm  me  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I  have 
never  thought  of  being  afraid.  Besides,  he 
gave  me  a  satisfactory  explanation." 

"He  gave  you  an  explanation!"  the 
other  repeated,  in  a  tone  of  amazement. 
"  He  told  you  —  the  first  wife  —  is  dead  ?" 

Alma  felt  herself  suffocating.  She  had 
gone  beyond  her  depth  —  the  water  was  clos 
ing  over  her  head.  She  had  not  stopped  to 
think  of  what  she  must  say.  Now  she  saw 
that  the  woman  would  demand  to  know  all. 
How  could  she  tell  her  there  had  never  been 
any  other  wife  —  that  he  had  invented  a  pre 
vious  marriage  story  —  that  he  —  !  There 
was  nothing  she  could  say.  She  paused  and 
stammered  :  "  I  —  am  his  legal  wife  ;  I  — 
claim  no  other  right  —  I  have  no  doubt  your 
163 


'^  Carriage 


moral  claim  is  as  strong.  But  you  have 
turned  against  him,  and  my  duty  seems  plain. 
I  must  not  desert  him  —  it  is  not  a  question 
of  love.  I  made  a  mistake  and  I  must  bear 
the  consequences.  You  hate  him  and  want 
to  be  free  from  him.  I  do  not  blame  you, 
for  he  has  acted  wickedly  toward  you.  It 
is  no  wonder  you  call  him  scoundrel  and 
want  to  be  far  away  from  him.  He  told  me 
of  your  wish  to  go  to  Europe,  and  I  found 
I  could  help  you  a  little  —  so  I  came."  The 
words  formed  themselves  with  difficulty,  and 
the  purse  seemed  more  brazen  and  shame 
lessly  thick  than  before.  "  I  came  to  bring 
you  the  money.  It  isn't  much  —  a  hundred 
dollars.  You  can  go  very  nicely  for  eighty, 
I  think.  It  is  only  giving  you  back  a  little 
of  your  own,  you  know  —  of  what  you  have 
expended  for  him  in  the  past,  I  mean. 
There  is  no  use  of  trying  to  palliate  his 
fault  —  no  use  even  to  discuss  it.  1  shall 
only  try  to  do  my  duty." 

The  woman  had  stood  up  and  was  look 
ing  down  on  her.     "He  told  you  —  that  I  — 
wished  to  go  to  —  Europe  ?  "   she  repeated, 
164 


'£  Carriage 


slowly,  with  a  faint,  pale  smile.  "  And  that 
—  I  wanted  money  —  to  go  -  " 

Alma  also  rose.  "  Yes,  he  told  me." 
She  opened  the  purse  and  took  out  the 
larger  roll.  "  I  shall  have  more  in  a  month," 
she  said.  "  If  I  knew  where  to  send  it  —  I 
want  to  feel  that  you  will  not  be  in  need. 
There  are  steamers  to-morrow  and  Satur 
day."  She  held  out  the  bills  with  an  im 
pulsive  gesture. 

The  other  fell  back  a  step.  "  You  come 
here  to  offer  me  money  ?--  there  was  a 
grinding  sound  in  her  utterance  —  "  to  offer 
me  money  ?  —  "  the  reddish  down  on  her 
cheeks  and  her  reddish  eyebrows  stood  out 
queerly  over  her  dead-white  face  —  "  money 
to  go  to  Europe  ?  You,  who  haven't  the 
shadow  of  right  to  the  name  of  wife  —  come 
to  buy  me  off  —  me  who  support  him,  who 
put  bread  in  his  mouth,  life  in  his  body  — 
me  who  went  to  you  and  told  you  the  truth 
as  a  friend  and  as  woman  to  woman  —  you  offer 
me  money?  I  spit  on  your  money  and  on  you  ! 
I  fling  it  back  in  your  face  —  I  defy  you  — 
I  despise  you  —  I  drive  you  from  my  sight  !  " 
165 


'g  Carriage 


The  next  that  was  clear  to  Alma's  com 
prehension  she  was  in  the  street,  a  block 
away  from  the  place.  She  was  running 
quite  fast  —  in  one  hand  her  purse,  in  the 
other  the  roll  of  bills.  There  was  a  pain  in 
her  shoulder  and  through  her  chest.  The 
woman  had  struck  her  —  had  struck  her  a 
hard  blow  in  that  whirlwind  of  fury  —  the 
creature  had  actually  struck  her.  The  crea 
ture  —  Rufino  was  right  —  she  was  a  diablo, 
and  worse.  Perhaps  he  was  not  so  greatly 
at  fault,  after  all.  All  this  was  vague  and 
but  half-acknowledged  in  her  thoughts. 
She  knew  she  had  made  some  blunder  in 
going  there.  "  The  creature  would  have 
taken  the  money  from  him"  she  said  to  her 
self.  "It  was  only  because  it  was  I.  I  was 
stupid  —  terribly  stupid  not  to  have  foreseen. 
My  shoulder  —  she  struck  me  with  her 
clenched  hand  —  I  shall  remember." 

She  had  recovered  from  her  dazed  con 

dition  by  the  time  she   arrived  at  the  apart 

ment.      Da  Veiga  was   already    there.     She 

found  him  in  the  dining-room,  smoking  and 

1  66 


'£  Carriage 


drinking  black  coffee.  "  Where  you  did  go, 
my  love  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  up  at  her 
with  bloodshot  eyes. 

"  To  the  lawyer,"  she  answered,  after  a 
moment  of  thought. 

"  You  did  get  no  money  ?  "  There  was 
evidence  of  great  strain  in  his  voice. 

"My  Aunt  Ester  sent  me  a  little.  If  it 
will  be  of  any  use,  Rufino,  I  have  fifty 
dollars." 

He  fell  forward  on  his  knees  at  her  feet. 
"  Oh,  my  love,  you  save  my  life  !  I  was 
near  to  despair.  That  man  —  my  friend,  'e 
did  go  'way  ;  until  two  weeks  'e  stay.  My 
love,  my  own  true  wife  !  " 

She  handed  him  the  purse  ;  she  had  with 
held  the  hundred-dollar  roll  and  placed  it  in 
her  pocket.  She  made  no  mention  of  it. 
Other  emergencies  might  confront  them,  she 
now  felt,  and  she  desired  to  be  prepared. 
After  a  little  she  saw  da  Veiga  putting  on  his 
coat  to  go  out,  and  she  offered  no  word  to 
stay  him.  She  imagined  he  was  going  to 
take  the  money  to  that  woman.  Perhaps 
the  woman  would  accept  it  from  him.  Per- 
167 


Carriage 


haps  she  would  go  to  Europe,  after  all  —  or 
elsewhere.  At  any  rate,  there  was  nothing 
further  Alma  could  think  to  do.  She  felt 
she  was  powerless  and  must  merely  let  things 
happen. 


1 68 


CHAPTER    XVI 

A   PARTY  OF  SEVEN 

FILMY  golden  light  steeped  the  level  lands 
about  the  little  railway  station  as  a  chattering 
party  of  seven  descended  from  the  parlor 
car.  It  was  a  good  half-mile  to  the  hotel, 
and  the  hotel  stage  seemed  at  first  glance 
inadequate.  Yet  laughingly,  as  the  train 
pulled  away  and  left  them,  the  new-comers 
moved  toward  this  smaller  vehicle.  A  short, 
dark  man,  very  correct  in  dress,  escorted  a 
stout  lady  of  middle  age  and  good-natured 
expression  ;  two  young  ladies,  one  much 
fairer  than  the  other,  but  clearly  sisters  ;  a 
youth,  as  precise  in  apparel  as  the  gentleman 
ahead  ;  finally  another  lady,  in  whose  face  a 
certain  youthfulness  lingered,  accompanied 
by  a  gentleman  of  thirty  or  more,  tall  in 
figure  and  quiet  mannered.  The  first  and 
169 


ttt'$  Carriage 


second  couples  conversed  in  words  entirely 
unintelligible  to  the  natives  ;  the  three  that 
followed  spoke  English.  The  youth,  who 
had  a  downy  mustache  and  resembled  his 
good-natured  mamma,  lingered  back  with  the 
others.  "  Well,"  he  remarked,  "  this  is  all 
your  doing,  Mrs.  Harding.  We  start  for 
Saratoga,  where  we  have  many  times  found 
pleasure,  and  we  find  ourselves  out  in  a 
strange  country,  a  desert  of  cornfields." 

"  Never  mind,  Pepito,"  said  Ester  Hard 
ing,  "  you  will  not  be  sorry.  You  wished  to 
go  to  Saratoga,  which  is  hot  and  stupid.  I 
persuade  you  to  go  to  a  cool  place  by  the 
sea,  is  it  not  so,  Don  Roberto  ?  —  "  she  turned 
to  the  tall  gentleman,  who  bowed  and 
smiled  —  "  where  there  are  beautiful  young 
ladies  who  will  dance  with  you  at  the  casino." 

They  were  all  nicely  seated  in  the  stage, 
filling  it  comfortably,  when  some  one  came 
running  out  after  them.  It  was  the  station- 
master.  "  Take  this  along  with  you,"  he 
cried  to  the  driver.  "  Parcel  for  Mrs.  Seven- 
banks." 

The  whip  cracked  and  they  rolled  off. 
170 


"My  sister-in-law  is  here,  it  seems,"  said 
Mrs.  Harding,  with  an  innocent  look  at  the 
grave  young  man  beside  her.  He  made  no 
reply,  but  appeared  interested  in  the  land 
scape. 

Five  minutes  had  carried  them  by  the 
sleeping  corn  and  vegetable  gardens ;  five 
minutes  more  showed  them  the  earlier  and 
more  modest  houses  ;  another  five  brought 
them  to  the  "  Corners,"  where  the  post-office 
was  filled  with  shirt-waist  youths  awaiting  the 
afternoon  mail.  And  now  they  drove  slowly 
into  the  beautiful  main  avenue  leading  to  the 
villas,  the  casino,  the  hotels,  the  dunes  and 
the  sea. 

The  hotel  proprietor  shone  with  joy.  He 
remembered  Mrs.  Harding  perfectly.  She 
had  spent  two  days  there  once.  Why  had 
she  not  wired  ?  Perhaps  Mrs.  Sevenbanks 
expected  them  ? 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  Mrs.  Harding, 
"  we  shall  surprise  each  other.  I  thought  she 
had  gone  back  to  town.  It  was  not  she,  my 
good  Bailey,  but  your  excellent  hotel  accom 
modations  that  drew  me  hither  with  my 
171 


'g  Carriage 


friends  :  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Severino  Gonzalez, 
Miss  Mercedes  Gonzalez,  Miss  Pacifica 
Gonzalez,  Mr.  Joseph  Gonzalez  and  Mr. 
Roberto  Vasquez.  Also  myself.  You  will 
please  to  register  all  these  names,  send  us  to 
the  finest  rooms,  and  soon,  oh,  very  soon 
thereafter,  summon  us  to  a  substantial 
repast.  And  it  must  be  dinner.  Do  not 
mock  us  with  the  ambiguous  fried  potatoes  — 
or,  if  they  must  be  fried,  see  that  they  are 
French  fried.  We  have  appetites." 

"  £)ue  esta  diciendo  ?  "  murmured  the  elder 
Gonzalez  girl,  blushing  as  her  eyes  met  those 
of  the  tall  Vasquez. 

"  Leave  it  to  her,''  said  young  Pepito,  in 
their  own  tongue.  "  She  is  giving  him  con- 
fites  ;  she  has  talent." 

Then  they  all  disappeared  up-stairs  in  the 
wake  of  the  proprietor  to  select  their  various 
quarters. 

Mrs.  Harding  did  not  await  the  dinner- 
bell.  She  made  hasty  change  of  toilette  and 
reappeared  in  the  wide  drawing-room.  The 
proprietor  was  attentive  to  her  inquiries  and 
explained  that  Mrs.  Sevenbanks  had  gone 
172 


'g  Carriage 


for  a  long  drive,  probably  to  the  Shinnecock 
Hills.  She  might  not  return  until  very  late. 
She  was  stopping  quite  alone  at  the  hotel  ; 
her  niece  had  not  been  with  her  this  season. 
It  had  been  a  good  season  thus  far.  He 
understood  the  heat  in  town  was  extreme. 
Mrs.  Sevenbanks  was  looking  much  better 
than  when  she  had  arrived.  The  poor  lady 
had  seemed  far  from  strong.  Some  one  had 
mentioned  to  him  —  he  begged  pardon  for  al 
luding  to  it  —  that  her  niece  had  married 
rather  unsatisfactorily.  He  hoped  it  was 
mere  gossip.  Mrs.  Harding  smiled  dis 
creetly.  There  was  some  truth  in  the  story, 
she  admitted  ;  still,  all  marriages  were 
guesses.  Who  could  predict  ?  One  must 
always  make  the  best  of  it.  One  could 
always  travel  —  unless  one  were  very  poor. 
The  best  plan  was  to  travel  and  avoid  scandal. 

The  Gonzalez  girls  now  came  stealing 
down  the  stairs  and  ventured  out  on  the 
piazza.  "  We  shall  no  doubt  like  it,"  the 
elder  observed.  "  There  is  a  beautiful  view." 

"  The  tennis  court  is  of  more  importance," 
said  the  younger,  "  as  long  as  mamma  makes 
173 


golf  so  hard  for  us,  thinking  she  must  ac 
company  us  every  moment,  and  getting  so 
tired."  She  was  darker,  plainer  and  less 
good-tempered  than  her  sister,  despite  her 
name,  Pacifica.  "  Provided,"  she  went  on, 
"there  are  any  young  men  here." 

"  There  is  Vasquez,"  the  elder  suggested, 
timidly. 

"  Vasquez,  indeed  !  Can  a  marble  statue 
play  golf  ?  He  knows  nothing  but  books 
and  law." 

"Very  likely.  Otherwise  he  would  never 
have  held  such  high  offices.  Charge  d' 'af 
faires " 

"  Of  course,  Meches^  you  adore  him  !  " 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Chica !  and  I  en 
gaged  to  Gutierrez  !  What  a  temper  !  " 

The  bell  rang  in  the  dining  hall  with  a 
great  resonance,  wholesomely  cheerful.  Foot 
steps  and  voices  were  heard. 


174 


CHAPTER  XVII 

OVER    THE  CURA£OA 

MRS.  HARDING  had  made  herself  as  com 
fortable  as  she  could  in  her  room.  The 
window  shades  were  lifted  and  the  great 
green  slatted  shutters  half-drawn,  so  that  one 
could  see  the  tremendous  moon  rising  late 
above  the  dunes.  It  was  a  still,  sweet  night ; 
the  scent  of  sea  and  of  beach  grasses  came 
now  and  then  like  a  delicate,  ministering 
spirit.  The  boom  of  the  ocean  soothed  her. 
She  would  have  liked  to  doze,  but  that  might 
not  be,  for  she  was  expecting  Mrs.  Seven- 
banks.  The  proprietor  had  informed  her  of 
that  lady's  return,  and  she  had  sent  her  card 
to  her  with  a  penciled  "  hoping  for  a  few  mo 
ments."  She  had  drawn  the  red  shade 
lower  on  the  lamp,  and  just  previous  to  en 
sconcing  herself  in  one  of  the  two  large  rock 
ing-chairs,  had  set  on  the  table  a  bottle  with 


'£  Carriage 


rich,  red,  sluggish  contents.  "  A  cordial," 
she  had  murmured,  "  for  fear  that  quality 
may  be  lacking."  Behind  the  bottle  were 
two  tiny  glasses. 

Would  Mrs.  Sevenbanks  come?  She 
yawned  slightly.  She  would  wait  another 
half-hour,  then,  failing  to  —  but  at  that  in 
stant  there  came  the  soft  whisper  of  silken 
skirts,  a  delicate  knock.  "  Enter  !  "  she 
said,  springing  to  her  feet. 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  seemed  to  catch  her 
breath  faintly  as  she  entered.  "  Ester  Hard 
ing  !  "  she  cried,  softly.  She  withdrew  one 
of  her  hands  from  the  other  lady's  clasp  and 
pressed  it  to  her  side.  She  was  dazzlingly 
pale  of  face,  and,  clad  all  in  white,  seemed 
wraith-like. 

Mrs.  Harding  for  the  first  time  found  her 
almost  beautiful.  "  But  you  are  looking 
very  well,"  she  exclaimed,  drawing  her  near 
er  the  table  and  pressing  her  down  into  the 
other  chair. 

"  I    am    better    than     I    was,"  said    Mrs. 
Sevenbanks,  more  steadily.     "  The  sea  air 
has  given  me  strength.     I  was  very  bad." 
176 


>0  Carriage 


"You  were  dreadfully  pulled  down  of 
course,"  responded  Mrs.  Harding.  She  was 
determined  to  have  the  painful  part  over  as 
soon  as  possible. 

"It  was  a  shock,  I   know  — 

"  Don't,"  said   Mrs.   Sevenbanks,   faintly 
again    pressing  her    heart.     "  Please  don't  ! 
I  cannot  endure  -  " 

"  But  I  am  not  going  to  say  anything," 
the  other  persisted,  "  that  is,  anything  that  it 
would  pain  you  to  hear.  Wait  a  bit.  Let 
me  pour  you  out  a  nutshell  full  of  this  cura- 
<joa.  It  is  fabulously  good.  A  drop  will 
stimulate  if  the  heart  is  weak,  as  yours  is." 
She  rilled  the  tiny  glasses  and  pressed  one 
into  her  sister-in-law's  hand.  "  Drink,"  she 
urged,  bravely  setting  the  example. 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks,  with  a  deep  sigh,  obeyed. 
They  replaced  the  glasses  on  the  table. 

"  That  was  a  present  to  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Harding.  "  I  have  a  commoner  kind  for 
ordinary  friends.  I  saved  this  for  you  to 
try." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  replied  Mrs.  Seven- 
banks.     The    faintest    wild    rose    pink    was 
12  177 


dawning  in  her  cheeks.  She  seemed  stronger 
and  more  capable  of  interest  in  her  sister-in- 
law.  "  You  brought  a  party  of  friends  ? " 
she  presently  inquired. 

"  Yes,  the  Gonzalez  family  and  Mr.  Vas- 
quez.  They  were  all  very  kind  to  me  in 
Paris.  And  back  in  South  America  Vasquez 
was  greatly  attached  to — Mr.  Sylvester,  as 
well  as  to  my  late  husband." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mrs.  Sevenbanks.  "  To  my 
brother  Francis?  I  should  like  to  meet  him 
— but  then " 

"  Do  not  worry.  He  knows  about  that 
unfortunate  marriage — he  will  never  allude 
to  it.  You  see  he  was  once — but  that  is 
seven  or  eight  years  ago — he  was  then  the 
first  sweetheart  of  our  niece." 

"  Ester  Harding  !  What  are  you  saying  ?  " 
And  after  a  pause  Mrs.  Sevenbanks,  clasp 
ing  her  hands  hard  on  her  knee  and  bending 
forward,  repeated,  distressfully  :  "  What  are 
you  saying  ? " 

"  I  am  saying  the  truth — no  more  or  less. 
He  is  a  fine  fellow,  a  distinguished-looking 
man.  You  will  say  so  when  you  see  him." 
178 


"  I  saw  two  strange  gentlemen  this  even 
ing  on  the  piazza.  One  was  little  and  dark, 
the  other  tall  and  grave.  Could  they  have 
been " 

"  The  little  man  was  Gonzalez,  the  tall  one 
Vasquez." 

"  But  they — the  little  man  looked  a  Pa 
risian,  and  the  other " 

"  Precisely.  Well,  my  dear  sister-in-law, 
that  is  the  man  who  should  have  married 
our  niece." 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  stared  helplessly  at  the 
cura9oa  bottle. 

"  I  grieve  to  say  he  did  not,"  went  on  the 
other  lady  presently.  "  And  why  ?  All  for 
a  childish  jealousy.  Some  one  had  told  the 
girl  that  he  was  in  love  with  a  married  wo 
man." 

"  Impossible  !  "  said  Mrs.  Sevenbanks, 
with  a  start. 

"  Impossible  for  him ,  yes.  Not  impossible 
perhaps,  for  some  of  his  countrymen,  for  you 
know  they  are  quite  as  fashionably  up  to 
date  as  some  of  our  dear  New  Yorkers." 

"  His  face  impressed  me  as  noble,"  said 
179 


Mrs.  Sevenbanks,  thoughtfully.  Then  she 
drew  a  long  breath.  "  But  why,"  she  mur 
mured,  "  why  have  you  brought  these  people 
here,  the  sight  of  whom  can  only  remind  me  ? 
You  cannot  mean  to " 

"  What  could  I  mean  ?  No,  I  thought 
you  had  gone  back  to  town.  But  finding  to 
the  contrary,  I  was  rather  glad  to  think  that 
I  could  present  to  you  a  countryman  who 
was  not  absolutely  a  savage." 

"  Ester  !  Alas  that  it  should  be  too  late  ! 
Do  not  say  any  more.  I  have  blamed  my 
self  enough.  I  was  too  uninformed — too 
prejudiced.  If  I  had  not  insisted  on  the 
Clifford  proposal  .  .  .  Perhaps  you  have 
heard  how  he  married  soon  after — an  impos 
sible  person  whom  he  had  long  known  and 
who  can  never  be  received." 

Mrs.  Harding  spoke  abruptly :  "  Have 
you  seen  Alma  ?  " 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  gasped.  "  How  could  I  ? 
She  has  not  come  to  me." 

"You  think  she  is  well  and  contented?"    < 

"  Heaven  only  knows.  I  had  a  letter 
from  Mrs.  Dow.  Alice  had  seen  her  some- 
180 


tet'£  Carriage 


where.     They  had  not  spoken.     She  looked 
well,  Alice  said." 

"  It  would  be  like  those  Dows  not  to 
speak.  A  foolish  precaution  !  That  pat 
tern  of  breeding,  that  raw-boned  paragon  of 
good  form,  will  never  find  an  earl  to  marry. 
She  has  not  the  money  her  cousin  had  —  nor 
the  beauty."  She  cleared  her  throat  of  its 
anger.  Then,  "  I  wrote  Alma  from  Paris," 
she  said,  "  six  weeks  ago.  I  asked  her  to 
come  over  there,  but  I  got  no  answer.  I 
was  sure  she  would  answer.  Letters  pass 
very  quickly,  and  I  was  there  until  a  fort 
night  ago." 

"  How  did  you  know  her  address  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  used  the  same  old  address,  in 
care  of  your  lawyer  man." 

"  You  mean  her  maiden  name?  " 

"  We  Latins  never  renounce  our  fathers' 
honored  names." 

"  Ah,  to  be  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Sevenbanks, 
more  gently.  "  But  it  is  most  likely  she 
had  no  money." 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  had,"  said   Mrs.    Harding, 
positively.     There    was    silence   for    a  time, 
181 


'£  Carriage 


then  she  inquired,  "  You  are  here  alone  — 
not  even  a  maid  ?  " 

"  I  feared  to  bring  Nora  ;  she  would  gos 
sip.  And  Jane  is  simply  worthless  away 
from  town.  I  suppose  she  must  marry 
James  —  eventually.  There  is  a  neat  young 
chambermaid  here  who  does  all  I  require. 
It  is  understood,  and  the  proprietor  has  no 
objection  to  my  paying  her.  I  could  spare 
her  if  you  should  need  -- 

Many  thanks,  but  I  am  well  used  to 
waiting  on  myself.  Now  you  must  take  just 
a  tiny  sip  of  this  —  "  She  refilled  the  glasses. 
"  It  revives  you.  I  was  amazed  at  what  a 
scientific  man  told  me  of  its  properties.  You 
have  already  some  color  in  your  face.  If 
you  knew  how  young  it  makes  you  look  -  " 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  smiled  faintly.  "  You 
will  have  your  jest,  Ester."  But  she  took 
the  cordial.  "  It  is  late,"  she  said,  rising  ; 
"  I  must  retire.  I  had  such  a  long  drive  ! 
We  will  talk  more  in  the  morning.  Regrets 
are  the  most  futile  things.  Still,  if  only  I 
had  not  insisted  on  the  Clifford  proposal  !  " 
The  cura9oa  had  made  her  more  communi- 
182 


cative.  "  And  now — now  there  is  no 
remedy — "  She  reached  out  and  caught  the 
hands  of  her  sister-in-law.  "  There  is  no 
remedy,  Ester  ?  I  suppose  none  ?  "  Her 
eyes  searched  the  other's  countenance  almost 
feverishly. 

Mrs.  Harding  shook  her  head.  "  How 
can  I  tell  ?  One  thing,  I  am  unalterably 
opposed  to  divorce,"  she  said,  with  strong 
emphasis.  "  It  is  so  much  more  honorable 
to  travel — so  much  more  in  accordance  with 
a  lofty  character."  She  followed  the  other 
to  the  door.  "  I  will  see  you  again  in  the 
morning.  I  have  another  bottle  of  that 
cordial,  which  I  am  going  to  give  you.  It 
will  do  you  a  world  of  good.  Just  the  two 
bottles  were  presented  to  me,  and  I  have 
saved  the  other,  knowing  you  were  not  strong. 
Till  to-morrow ;  and  remember — "  she 
lowered  her  voice — "  I  am  unalterably  op 
posed  to  divorce.  Anything  else " 

"  Good-night,"  said  Mrs.  Sevenbanks, 
floating  away  like  a  snow  wraith  into  the 
dimness  of  the  passage. 


183 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ALMA    LISTENS 

ON  the  night  following  that  on  which 
Alma's  anxious  aunts  had  sat  speaking  of  her 
in  that  upper  chamber  of  the  seaside  hotel 
Alma  herself  sat  alone  at  her  window  in 
Madison  avenue.  She  had  been  alone  in 
the  apartment  for  over  twenty-four  hours. 
Da  Veiga,  since  going  out  with  the  fifty  dol 
lars  in  his  pocket  the  previous  afternoon, 
had  omitted  to  return.  She  felt  sure  now 
that  he  had  gone  to  the  Twenty-fourth  street 
house,  and  that  the  woman  Barbara  had  kept 
him  there.  She  had  waited  patiently  all  day 
for  some  message,  never  once  leaving  the 
building.  She  hardly  knew  whether  she  had 
eaten  anything  or  not.  There  were  biscuits, 
cheese  and  plenty  of  coffee  in  the  house,  but 
she  had  not  felt  hungry.  Probably  she  had 
185 


eaten  and  drunk  mechanically.  It  was  now 
approaching  ten  o'clock,  and  she  began  to 
think  it  would  be  well  to  seek  rest.  She 
was  worn  out,  and  her  thoughts  seemed 
at  times  to  drift  uncontrollably,  like  debris 
on  some  high  Spring  flood.  A  crisis  had 
come  into  her  life,  she  knew,  and  she  was 
powerless  to  avert  it. 

Lingering  yet  a  little  by  the  window,  she 
could  see  distinctly  in  the  white  moonlight 
on  the  street  below  the  few  pedestrians  that 
passed.  At  last,  just  as  she  was  about  to 
turn  away,  she  caught  sight  of  a  familiar 
figure  turning  the  corner  into  the  avenue. 
It  was  da  Veiga,  finally  returning. 

She  remained  there,  watching  his  approach. 
He  came  deliberately,  at  peace,  it  seemed, 
with  all  the  world.  She  moved  slightly  back 
from  the  window  as  he  crossed  to  the  house 
entrance,  but  even  as  she  did  so  her  gaze  fell 
on  another  figure  turning  the  corner  into  the 
avenue — the  figure  of  a  woman.  It  was 
impossible  for  her  to  mistake,  in  that  in 
tense  white  light,  the  hesitation,  the  stealthy 
half-pause,  the  redetermination  of  the 
1 86 


'£  Carriage 


woman    Barbara  !     She  was    following    him 
home  ! 

To  what  end  ?  For  what  purpose  ?  Did 
he  suspect  ?  Was  it  by  some  arrangement 
with  him  that  she  followed?  Was  he  going 
out  to  meet  her  again  ?  Did  he  think  Alma 
might  have  gone  away  ?  Was  it  an  under 
standing  between  them  to  pretend  some 
amicable  settlement  and  separation  ?  Was 
it  —  money  ?  A  thousand  fancies  framed 
themselves  to  distract  her  in  the  few  seconds 
of  actual  time. 

She  saw  the  woman  linger  on  the  opposite 
side,  then  hastily  cross  over  in  his  tracks. 
A  sudden  suffocating  terror  came  on  her. 
To  escape  from  them  —  night  and  all  —  to  es 
cape.  Her  hat  —  her  purse  in  her  bosom- 
to  escape  !  The  elevator  was  coming  up  — 
she  had  but  seconds.  Her  hat  —  she  caught 
it  —  then  she  heard  his  key  in  the  door. 
Between  the  drawing-room  and  its  alcove 
were  abundant  satin  portieres  that  had  been 
drawn  back  to  the  utmost  during  the  hot 
weather.  Into  the  folds  of  these  she  crept 
and  stood  motionless.  She  heard  da  Veiga 
187 


enter,  breathing  wearily.  "  I  'ave  walk  fast," 
he  said,  in  English.  "  No  one  'ere  ?  Oh, 
mi  querida  !  "  Then,  in  Spanish,  "  She  has 
gone,  as  I  expected.  Well — she  will  come 
back."  He  retraced  his  way  down  the  pas 
sage  to  the  dining-room,  where  the  gas 
burned  dimly.  His  next  act,  she  thought, 
would  be  to  make  coffee  and  drink  it.  She 
waited  to  hear  the  clatter  of  the  gas  range, 
during  which  she  might  pass  out  and  close 
the  door  after  her  without  being  heard.  But 
she  seemed  to  wait  in  vain.  He  was  perhaps 
changing  his  coat  or  continuing  to  seek  for 
her.  Still  she  waited.  Suddenly  she  started 
at  hearing  the  bell  of  the  apartment  door  ring 

quietly,  steadily.      Could  it  be ? 

She  heard  him  coming  from  the  remote 
kitchen.  "  So — she  'as  come  back,"  he  said. 
"  I  did  know.  Well,  mi  queri—  He  had 
opened  the  door  and  stood  facing — some  one 
very  different.  "  You  !  "  he  cried,  with  hys 
terical  shrillness.  "  Why  you  did  come  to 
this  'ouse  ?  Now,  so  I  prove  to  you  there  is 
no  woman — in  every  room  I  lead  you.  You 
make  my  to  kill  you  yet,  if  so  you  think 
188 


those  things,  Bebe  ! "  The  door  closed 
heavily.  The  two  were  in  the  private  pas 
sage.  And  Alma  stifled  in  the  heavy  satin 
portieres. 

"  Have  you  killed  her  yet  ?  "  the  woman 
questioned,  in  a  low,  sarcastic  tone.  "  No, 
Rufino  da  Veiga,  the  time  has  come  when 
you  must  choose.  I  am  tired  of  your 
promises  and  your  falsehoods.  I  am  tired 
of  trusting  you.  The  end  is  going  to  be 
right  now,  or — well,  I  shall  make  an  end. 
You  need  not  look  scared  ;  I  don't  mean 
murder — or  suicide.  No,  nothing  of  the  sort. 
I  mean  to — expose  you  !  " 

There  was  an  instant  of  breathless  silence, 
then  the  sound  of  a  low  chuckle.  "  Oh, 
Bebe,  what  foolish  woman  !  'Ow  you  can 
exespose  ?  What  I  'ave  done  ?  I  kill  no 
one — I  do  no  'arm " 

"  No,  Rufino,  you  didn't  kill  the  old 
Count.  But  when  he  died  you  stole  his 
papers — stole  his  title — stole  the  few  things 
he  had  about  him.  You  may  claim  he  gave 
them  to  you,  as  you  were  his  trusted  servant. 
But  all  he  ever  gave  you,  Rufino,  was  that 
189 


'g  Carriage 


scar  on  the  face,  where  he  struck  you  for 
being  too  fond  of  his  housekeeper.  He  had 
a  fiery  temper,  the  old  Count.  You  see,  I 
know  everything,  Rufino.  You  didn't  think 
I  knew  so  much  ?  I  found  a  letter  and  I 
paid  to  have  it  translated.  That  was  easily 
done.  I  have  the  letter  still,  not  where  you 
can  ever  get  it  —  not  in  Twenty-fourth  street. 
And  I  have  sent  a  copy  to  a  man  who  has 
a  friend  who  is  from  South  America  and  is  a 
lawyer.  And  this  lawyer  will  be  in  New 
York  in  a  few  days.  Then,  Rufino,  if  you 
have  not  made  an  end  of  this  business,  you 
will  be  exposed.  And  I  —  I  shall  turn  you 
into  the  street." 

Da  Veiga  laughed  aloud.  "  You  are  one 
foolish  woman,  Bebe.  "You  think  to  scare 
my.  Poor  Bebe  !  Who  will  believe  one 
crazy  woman?  I  will  say,  c  It  is  because  I 
will  not  give  'er  money.'  The  judge  will 
say,  f  She  is  one  blackmailer.'  Eh,  Bebe  ?  " 

"  The  rich  family  of  your  heiress  will  not 

say  so.     Just  one   word   to   them  and  they 

will  do  all   the    rest.     Just   one   word  only 

I  need  to  say.     I   tell   them   that  the  man 

190 


7  kill  no  one— I  do  no  'arm. 


who  played  the  Count  Geraldina,  the  million 
aire  concessionary,  is  an  impostor.  The  real 
Count  is  dead.  I  say  to  them,  *  The  man 
you  know,  the  tall,  fine-looking  man,  the 
bronzed  general,  the  refugee,  the  revolu 
tionist,  was  only  an  employe  of  the  late 
Count.  He  was  the  late  Count's  courier 
and — valet  !  " 

There  was  the  sound  of  husky,  hard 
breathing.  Was  the  heart  excitement  purely 
her  own,  Alma  wondered,  or  did  she  hear 
the  labored  respirations  of  the  two  strange 
beings  in  the  passage  ? 

"  Vare  well,  Bebe,"  said  da  Veiga,  pres 
ently,  in  a  resigned  way.  "  I  see  you  are 
one  diablo.  What  you  will  'ave  I  do  ?  I 
go  back  with  you  to  Twenty-fourth  street. 
I  get  my  'at  and  coat.  I  leave  the  gas 
turned  low.  I  go  with  you." 


191 


CHAPTER  XIX 

HOME  AGAIN 

WHEN  Alma  was  blocks  away  from  the 
house  she  regretted  that  she  had  not  taken 
a  small  handbag.  She  feared  no  hotel  would 
admit  her  at  that  hour.  She  was  well  aware 
that  night  clerks  suspected  all  unattended 
women  of  suicidal  intentions.  She  had  no 
idea  what  she  was  going  to  do  for  shelter. 
She  must  get  away  from  that  terrible  apart 
ment  before  she  could  think  or  determine. 
Walking  aimlessly  for  nearly  an  hour,  all  at 
once  she  discovered  herself  within  a  square 
of  her  old  home,  the  town  house  of  her 
aunt,  Mrs.  Sevenbanks.  She  remembered 
there  were  always  a  couple  of  servants  there 
throughout  the  Summer.  It  was  nearly 
midnight,  but  owing  to  the  sultry  heat  the 
housekeeper  or  the  butler  might  be  awake. 
13  193 


'$  Carriage 


They  could  offer  no  objection  to  her  re 
maining  for  the  night.  At  all  events,  she 
would  make  the  attempt.  The  idea  came  like 
a  ray  of  crystal  clearness  through  the  dark 
ness  of  all  other  thoughts. 

She  succeeded  in  wakening  them  even 
more  easily  than  she  had  anticipated.  The 
housekeeper  came  to  the  area  door  dressed 
and  actually  smiling.  There  was  no  sur 
prise  in  her  manner.  "  Oh,  it  is  you,  Miss 
Alma." 

"  Yes,  it  is  I,  Josephine.  You  did  not 
expect  me  at  this  hour  ?  " 

The  answer  came  in  somewhat  startling 
form  :  "  The  telegram  was  not  so  clear, 
miss  ;  it  didn't  say  whether  to-day  or  to 
morrow.  It  only  said  :  l  Prepare  rooms  at 
once  for  Mrs.  Harding.'  We  thought  best 
to  wait  up  till  twelve." 

For  the  briefest  instant  Alma  stood 
motionless.  Then,  "  I  find  it  a  little  dim 
here,"  she  said,  slowly  ;  "  the  moonlight 
dazzles."  She  followed  the  woman  in.  "  It 
was  wise  to  wait  up,  Josephine,"  she  said, 
recovering  herself  after  a  few  seconds.  "  And 
194 


'g  Carriage 


at  what  time  did  you  receive  the  de 
spatch  ?  " 

"  It  was  about  noon,  miss.  You  will  find 
it  in  the  dressing-room.  We  prepared  the 
chamber  that  Mrs.  Harding  always  oc 
cupies." 

"  That  was  right.  The  dressing-room 
with  the  little  bed  will  do  for  me.  Mrs. 
Harding  may  not  arrive  until  morning.  I 
will  go  up  at  once,  Josephine.  The  lights 
are  on  in  the  hall,  I  suppose." 

"  The  electric,  yes,  miss.  Shall  I  go  with 
you  ?  " 

"  You  may,  please,  and  —  get  me  the  tele 
gram."  She  said  to  herself  if  this  were  all  a 
dream  she  would  waken  when  she  came  to 
reach  for  the  yellow  form.  But  no  waken 
ing  came.  The  telegram  was  dated  at  the 
Beach  that  very  morning.  "  Prepare  rooms 
at  once  for  Mrs.  Harding,"  it  said,  and  the 
signature  was  "  L.  S.  Sevenbanks,"  exactly 
as  her  Aunt  Louise  was  in  the  habit  of  sign 
ing  when  writing  or  wiring  to  her  servants. 

The  housekeeper  lingered  a  little. 

"It  is  a  pleasure  to  see  you  again,  Miss 
195 


Alma,"  she  ventured.  "  Can  I  do  anything 
for  you  ?  Would  you  desire  a  bath  pre 
pared  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  Josephine,  I  require  noth 
ing.  I  am  going  to  bed  at  once.  The 
little  bed  in  the  dressing-room — I  am  tired 
— I  shall  want  coffee  rather  early — before 
nine,  I  think.  I  will  ring  for  you  to  send 
it  up.  I  suppose  James  is  still  here  ?  Yes  ? 
Good-night,  Josephine." 

"Good-night,  Miss  Alma." 

Alma  was  alone  in  her  old  home. 

She  sat  down  on  the  divan  at  the  foot  of 
the  great  carved  bed  in  the  larger  room. 
"  Aunt  Ester  coming  here  to-morrow" ! 
Aunt  Ester  not  in  Paris,  but  at  the  Beach — 
and  her  letter  only  two  days  in  my  hands  ! 
What  can  I  say  to  her  ?  What  will  she  say 
to  me?"  All  at  once  she  sprang  up  and 
locked  herself  in,  then  began  to  undress  with 
a  sort  of  frenzied  haste.  She  would  get 
into  bed  before  anything  should  happen  to 
alter  matters.  With  her  reentry  into  this 
conventional  and  stately  home  she  felt  her 
self  suddenly  restored  to  the  conventional 
196 


'g  Carriage 


mental  condition  of  her  girlhood  days  —  a 
helpless,  ultra-womanly  condition.  Up  to 
the  moment  of  entering  she  could  have 
walked  the  streets  till  morning,  gone  about 
fearless  and  uncaring.  Now  she  felt  that 
rather  than  step  from  the  house  to  the  pave 
ment  she  would  seek  means  of  suicide. 
There  was  as  much  terror  and  horror  for 
her  at  the  thought  of  being  out  unprotected 
in  the  night  as  she  would  have  felt  in  the 
months  of  early  Spring,  before  she  ever  saw 
da  Veiga.  If  they  should  ask  her  to  leave, 
or  coldly  thrust  her  out,  she  would  fall  dy 
ing  on  the  stones  of  the  sidewalk,  it  seemed 
to  her.  Surely  they  would  not  molest  her 
if  they  found  she  had  retired.  With  these 
wild  and  foolish  forebodings  she  cowered 
under  the  linen  sheet  and  straightway  fell 
into  the  deep  oblivion  of  exhaustion. 

She  knew  nothing  more  till  roused  by  a 
loud  knocking.  She  sat  up  in  bed  and 
looked  round  her  uncomprehendingly.  It 
was  another  day.  She  was  there,  it  was  no 
dream.  A  familiar  voice  was  calling  her 
name  : 

197 


'£  Carriage 


"  Alma,  open  quickly  !  It  is  I  —  "  the 
voice  of  her  Aunt  Ester. 

"  Yes,"  she  was  able  to  make  husky  an 
swer,  as  she  slipped  from  the  bed  and  stood 
a  moment  on  the  Persian  rug.  Her  glance 
fell  on  a  bath  robe  folded  neatly  on  a  chair. 
She  caught  it  up,  wrapped  it  about  her  and 
opened  the  door. 

Mrs.  Harding  reached  out  and  embraced 
her  lightly.  "  So  glad,  my  dear  !  You 
got  here  first,  it  seems."  She  pushed  her 
gently  back  into  the  room,  and  turning, 
spoke  to  the  housekeeper  in  the  hall.  "  Jo 
sephine,  do  me  the  kind  favor  to  go  down 
and  personally  superintend  the  making  of 
that  coffee,  else  it  will  be  too  weak.  You 
always  know  just  what  I  want.  In  ten  or 
fifteen  minutes  will  be  soon  enough.  Thank 
you,  Josephine,  that  is  all."  She  closed  the 
door  behind  her.  "  Heaven  be  praised,  my 
child,"  she  said. 

Alma  had  receded  to  the  bed.     Her  lips 

moved,    but     her    throat    was     constricted. 

Ester    Harding  watched   her  with    sympa 

thetic  eyes.     "  There,"  she  said,  "  don't  look 

198 


ter'£  Carriage 


so  white;  all  will  come  right.  It  was  to 
find  you  I  came.  I  thought  it  would  be 
harder." 

Alma  sank  on  the  bed.  "  To  find  me  ?  " 
The  words  came  unsteadily.  "  Aunt  Ester, 
I  am  lost.  You  —  you  do  not  know.  He 
—  he  is  an  impostor.  He  is  no  count  —  he 
was  only  —  the  Count's  —  valet  !  "  She  fell 
to  shaking  like  one  with  a  chill. 

Ester  Harding  breathed  deeply.  Then, 
"  Heaven  again  be  praised  !  "  she  cried. 
"  I  find  my  task  half-done  —  I  do  not  have 
to  break  the  news  to  you." 

"You  don't  understand  —  you  don't  know, 
Aunt  Ester  -  " 

"  I  know  all.  It  is  why  I  am  here.  I 
came  from  Paris.  I  wrote  you  and  you  did 
not  answer  -  " 

"  I  got  your  letter  only  the  day  before 
yesterday." 

"  As  you  did  not  answer  I  had  to  come. 
And  it  is  better  so.  All  will  soon  come 
right." 

"  Aunt   Ester,  you   have  not  understood 
me  yet.     He  was  not  the  Count,  but  -  " 
199 


'£  Carriage 


"  That  is  what  I  had  come  to  tell  you, 
and  I  must  say  I  did  not  enjoy  the  task  in 
prospect.  But  all  this  is  why  I  am  down  at 
the  Beach  with  a  party  of  six  on  my  hands. 
Yes,  my  dear,  I  had  to  bring  the  entire 
blessed  Gonzalez  family  from  Paris.  They 
are  down  there  as  my  guests.  It  costs  me 
something,  but  what  of  that  ?  I  had  to 
bring  Severino  Gonzalez  —  he  knew  the  real 
Count.  It  was  he,  besides,  who  wrote  the 
letter  of  introduction  for  the  real  Count  — 
the  letter  whose  date  was  altered.  Natu 
rally,  Severino  could  not  leave  his  wife  be 
hind,  nor  could  she  leave  her  daughters  un- 
chaperoned.  As  for  Pepito,  he  amuses 
me." 

"  Pepito  ?  "  murmured  Alma,  still  shiver 
ing. 

"  That  is  young  Gonzalez.  Why  do  you 
tremble  so,  child  ?  Dress  yourself,  partly 
at  least.  After  our  good  strong  coffee  you 
can  tell  me  what  you  will.  Above  all,  not  a 
word  for  the  servants  to  catch  and  repeat;  I 
faithfully  promised  this  to  your  Aunt  Seven- 
banks." 

3OO 


'£  Carriage 


"My  Aunt  Sevenbanks,"  murmured  Alma, 
desolately.  "  She  can  never  forgive  me." 

"  It  is  herself  that  she  is  inclined  not  to 
forgive.  She  considers  it  entirely  her  own 
fault.  If  you  could  hear  her!  She  blames 
herself  for  having  approved  the  old  widower, 
what  was  his  name  ?  She  does  not  like  him 
so  well  now.  It  seems  he  married  some  one 
that  he  had  known  a  long  time.  I  never 
before  knew  that  could  prove  an  objection  — 
it  seems  his  wife  will  not  be  received  on 
that  account.  Your  aunt  was  quite  shaken. 
How  happy  she  will  be  to  have  you  back 
again  !  " 

"  She  did  not  say  I  had  disgraced  her  ?  " 
the  girl  faltered. 

"  Hija  I  That  is  something  only  people 
of  low  extraction  are  capable  of,  speaking 
against  their  own  flesh  and  blood  —  particu 
larly  their  children.  Do  not  insult  her 
with  such  a  thought.  But  dress  yourself. 
I  am  going  to  telegraph  for  your  Aunt 
Sevenbanks  to  come  at  once." 


201 


CHAPTER  XX 

EXPLANATIONS 

AFTER  sending  the  telegram  they  had 
time  to  sit  talking  matters  over.  For  the 
third  time  Alma  asked  her  aunt  how  she  had 
worded  the  message,  and  for  the  third  time 
Ester  Harding  repeated,  patiently  :  "  '  If 
possible,  come  up  to  town  at  once.  Alma 
is  here  to  remain.  All  well  and  serene.' ' 
There  were  seven  extra  words,  she  clearly 
remembered. 

A  heavy  shower  fell  in  the  early  afternoon 
and  made  the  air  a  little  less  oppressive. 
They  remained  for  the  most  part  in  the 
chamber  that  had  been  specially  opened  for 
the  Spanish  lady.  The  drawing-rooms  and 
other  suites  were  of  course  closed.  All  the 
heavy  green  shades  of  the  windows  were 
down,  and  they  found  it  dim  and  restful 
as  the  rain  began. 

203 


'£  Carriage 


Mrs.  Harding  had  not  pressed  the  girl  to 
recite  her  experiences,  and  of  these  Alma 
spoke  but  little  beyond  that  part  beginning 
with  the  appearance  of  the  woman  Barbara 
on  the  scene.  The  elder  lady  seemed  at 
times  desirous  to  avert  a  tragic  aspect.  She 
made  her  niece  describe  the  woman.  "  A 
large,  long  nose,  you  say,"  she  commented. 
"  A  very  large  nose,  like  Cyrano  de  Ber- 
gerac's  or  just  a  generous  nose,  '  the  nose  of 
a  woman  who  would  always  have  money  in 
the  bank  ?  '  Where  did  I  hear  that  ?  "  She 
even  tried  to  smile  over  incidents.  "  Let  us 
keep  as  cheerful  as  we  can,  my  dear,"  she 
said.  "  It  may  seem  dark  for  a  while,  but 
we  shall  get  over  it."  Now  and  then  she 
would  try  to  divert  with  irrelevant  remarks  : 
"  Strange  these  New  York  houses  cannot  be 
kept  cooler.  One  does  not  suffer  so  indoors 
in  the  tropics.  If  all  the  draperies  could  be 
sent  away  —  that  rug  in  the  dressing-room 
smells  hot." 

"  The  Bokhara  prayer-rug,"   said   Alma, 
feebly.     "  Aunt  Louise  thought  it  a  bargain 
at  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars." 
204 


'£  Carriage 


"  A  cold  weather  bargain.  The  rain 
seems  to  cease.  I  hope  it  will  be  cooler  by 
seven  if  she  comes  on  the  four  o'clock  train." 

Alma  moved  uneasily  in  her  chair.  She 
seemed  nerving  herself  for  something.  After 
a  great  effort  she  managed  to  ask  :  "  Aunt 
Ester,  how  much  does  Aunt  Louise  know  ?  " 

"  By  this  time,  probably  more  than  we 
do.  It  makes  no  difference.  The  main 
thing  is  that  you  are  here,  safe." 

"  She  will  never  let  me  stay  here." 

"  That  is  nonsense,  my  dear.  In  the  first 
place,  she  knows  she  was  to  blame  —  has  ac 
knowledged  it  to  me.  Why  did  she  not 
cable  me  ?  No,  she  waited  and  wrote. 
Poor  soul,  she  regrets  waiting  now.  I  was 
in  Paris  ;  the  Gonzalez  family  was  there.  I 
knew  nothing  of  what  you  had  done  when, 
one  day,  as  was  natural,  I  asked  Severino 
something  about  the  letter  he  had  sent  by 
the  Count.  He  had  forgotten  about  it. 
f  Strange,'  I  said,  c  very  strange.' 

"  *  One  forgets  a  good  deal  in  a  year,'  he 
apologized. 

"  c  How  in  a  year  ?  ' 
205 


'g  Carriage 


"  '  Why,  the  Count  is  dead  more  than  a 
year.' 

"  *  The  Count  is  dead  ?  '  I  repeated.  s  Did 
I  not  leave  him  in  New  York,  very  much 
alive  —  very  stout  and  healthy  ?  ' 

"  c  Of  whom  are  you  talking  ?  '  he  asked, 
bewildered. 

"  £  Of  Geraldina,  of  course.' 

"  f  I  tell  you  he  is  dead  —  over  a  year.' 

"'You  did  not  recently  send  him  to  me 
with  a  letter  of  introduction  ?  ' 

"  c  Why,  I  did  give  him  a  letter  some 
weeks  before  he  died.' 

"  l  Well,  he  has,  then,  come  to  life  again. 
He  is  over  in  New  York.' 

"f  You  mistake.  What  sort  of  a  man  is 
this  you  speak  of,  senora  ?  ' 

"  c  A  tall,  large  man  —  part  Indian.  If  he 
were  not  so  tanned  he  would  be  called  fine- 
looking.' 

"  '  Geraldina  was  little  and  crippled  from 
a  bullet  in  the  thigh,'  he  said. 

"  c  Who,  then,  presented  to  me  your  let 
ter  ?  Who  is  this  man  ?  '  I  asked. 

"  Severino  reflected.  '  It  may  have  been 
206 


that  some  one  stole  the  letter  after  the  death 
of  Geraldina.' 

" c  But  who  would  have  access  to  his 
effects  ? ' 

"  *  Some  friend  or  dependent,  perhaps.' 

"  Pepito,  Severino's  son,  who  sat  listening 
as  we  talked,  spoke  up.  f  You  would  like 
to  see  a  picture  of  the  Count,  senora?  I 
took  one  a  few  weeks  before  he  died,  with 
my  large  camera.  It  is  in  my  collection.  I 
will  get  it.'  He  was  gone  not  five  minutes 
and  came  back  with  his  hands  full  of  prints. 
1  Here,'  he  said, c  is  one  of  the  Count,  alone.' 
I  looked  and  saw  a  thin-faced,  shrunken 
cripple  leaning  on  a  cane.  f  And  here — ' 
he  began  to  laugh — c  here  is  a  snap-shot  of 
the  Count  when  his  valet  was  carrying  him 
aboard  the  yacht  of  Mr.  Brown,  the  rich 
American.  And  they  were  together  so  heavy 
that  the  dingey  capsized  and  they  fell  in  the 
water.  Oh,  the  valet  was  strong,  but ' 

"  I  looked  and  saw  two  figures,  one  carry 
ing  the  other.  c  Who  is  the  large  man  ? '  I 
inquired. 

"  f  Why,  the  valet,'  said  Pepito. 
207 


'g  Carriage 


tc<It  was  he,'  I  said  to  Severino,  *  who 
brought  me  the  letter  of  introduction  and 
was  presented  by  me  to  my  sister-in-law, 
Mrs.  Sevenbanks.' 

"  Severino  was  silent  for  some  seconds. 
Then  he  said,  shrugging  a  little  :  f  Seriora^  I 
am  sincerely  sorry,  but  —  no  Yankee  woman 
is  ever  long  imposed  on.' 

"  Soon  after,  we  received  the  news  of 
what  you  had  done." 

Alma  uttered  a  groan.  "  What  will  be 
come  of  me  ?  She  will  never  forgive  me," 
she  reiterated. 

"She  has  already  forgiven  you,"  said  Ester 
Harding,  "  and  —  if  you  don't  go  on  living 
here,  you  might  travel.  It  seems  to  me,  in 
such  a  case,it  is  good  taste  to  travel  —  awhile." 

"  I  am  too  poor  to  travel,"  said  Alma, 
"  and  too  —  unhappy."  She  continued,  after 
an  instant,  unsteadily  :  "  Besides,  there  must 
be  some  kind  of  separation." 

"  That  we  shall  come  to  later  on.  Noth 
ing  in  too  much  haste.  We  shall  have  good 
legal  advice  to  adjust  your  status." 

"  I  wish,"  said  the  girl  suddenly,  "  J 
208 


'£  Carriage 


could  go  far  away  from  New  York  forever  — 
and  forget  it  all." 

"  We  shall  see." 

"  Aunt  Louise  did  not  say  what  she 
thought  should  be  done  ?  " 

"  I  gave  her  no  time  to  consider.  I 
started  out  by  saying,  c  I  am  unalterably  op 
posed  to  divorce." 

"  But,  Aunt  Ester,  you  wouldn't  leave  me 
tied  to  that  man  —  an  impostor  —  another 
woman's  husband  in  the  sight  of  heaven  —  a 
valet  -  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  I  had  to  take  a  stand.  We 
are  going  to  see  about  it.  You  must  re 
member  several  things.  First,  the  *  sight  of 
heaven,'  with  all  due  reverence,  plays  no 
great  part  in  matrimony.  If  it  did,  gracious 
hosts,  what  an  upset  of  things  !  It  is  the 
sight  of  the  law  that  counts.  Then,  the 
strict  religious  principles  of  your  Aunt 
Sevenbanks,  a  devout  churchwoman.  No 
toleration  of  divorce.  The  good  bishops 
and  clergy  -  " 

"  The   bishops  and  clergy  don't  have  to 
live  with  valets,"  cried  Alma,  wildly. 
14  209 


'£  Carriage 


"  H'sh  !  I  know.  Between  you  and 
me,  they  might  cultivate  a  few  more  scruples 
about  marrying  unsuitable  couples.  But 
one  must  take  a  very  moral  stand  and  at  the 
same  time  endeavor  to  be  diplomatic.  With 
out  diplomacy  the  world  would  again  be 
come  chaotic.  I  remember  while  we  were 
crossing  from  Havre  to  New  York  I  was 
lying  flat  on  my  back  in  the  berth,  not  sick 
at  all,  but  wishing  to  spare  myself  the  grief 
of  seeing  the  excellent  Gonzalez  folk  suffer. 
A  little  rhyme  came  running  through  my 
head  that  seemed  to  point  a  moral  and  a 
course.  I  don't  recall  the  Spanish  words, 
but  this  is  the  way  it  would  go  in  English  : 

"  '  See  a  little  pig  sunning  in  the  yard  ; 
Would  you  have  it  come  to  you,  hit  it  good 

and  hard. 
Would    you   have   it  run   away,   this    is  of 

avail  : 
Plant  your  feet  and  drag  it  backward  by  its 

curly  tail.'  " 

She    paused,  but     Alma,  with     her    face 
bowed  in  her  hands,  only  breathed  heavily. 
210 


'£  Carriage 


A  slight  commotion  was  audible  in  the 
hall  or  on  the  landing  below.  Mrs.  Hard 
ing  went  out  and  spoke  over  the  baluster  : 

"  Josephine,  you  have  received  a  tele 
gram  ?  " 

"Yes,  madam.  Mrs.  Sevenbanks  will 
arrive  this  evening.  We  are  preparing  her 
apartment." 


211 


CHAPTER  XXI 

MRS.    SEVENBANKS   RETURNS 

AT  the  sound  of  cab  wheels  grinding  up 
close  to  the  curbstone — Mrs.  Sevenbanks 
had  really  chosen  a  cheap  little  cab  to  drive 
her  from  the  ferry — a  wave  of  nervous  ter 
ror  seemed  to  inundate  the  entire  chamber. 
Alma  sat  drowned  and  speechless ;  Ester 
Harding  flew  to  the  window,  tried  to  peep 
out  and  returned  quickly  to  her  chair.  One 
of  her  small  Spanish  feet  tapped  the  floor  as 
ceaselessly  as  if  connected  with  an  electric 
battery.  Once  she  turned  her  head  slightly 
to  see  that  the  maid  had  not  taken  away  her 
second  bottle  of  sacred  cura9oa,  which  she 
had  promised  to  Mrs.  Sevenbanks  and  meant 
presently  to  bring  to  good  use  if  necessary. 

"  I  wish  I  didn't  shake  so,"  said  Alma. 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  said  Ester  Harding; 
213 


"  what  in  the  world  is  there  to  shake  about  ?  " 
And  she  moved  forward  in  her  chair  and 
made  a  desperate  effort  to  keep  her  foot 
still.  The  door  leading  to  the  wide  landing 
was  open.  They  could  hear  Mrs.  Seven- 
banks  speaking  mildly  to  the  housekeeper : 
"  All  are  well,  I  trust.  You  have  ordered 
dinner  for  eight  o'clock,  as  usual  ?  You 
may  take  the  things  out  of  the  bag.  No, 
do  not  send  Jane.  I  shall  not  dress  for 
dinner.  I  am  going  up  to  Mrs.  Harding." 
Ester  Harding  rose  as  her  sister-in-law 
entered.  It  seemed  to  her  Mrs.  Seven- 
banks  was  looking  unusually  young.  The 
heat  of  the  day  had  flushed  the  lady's  cheeks. 
She  wore  a  tailored  costume  of  finest  green- 
gray  cloth,  as  thin  of  texture  as  the  silken 
peachblow  lining.  Her  small  hat  was  a 
marvel  of  good  taste  and  her  fair  hair  shone 

D 

pale  golden. 

"  Can  it  be  she  <  regenerates  '  it  ?  "  Ester 
asked  herself.  "  She  keeps  herself  slender. 
The  secret  of  youth  is  never  to  get  fat  under 
the  chin."  And  even  while  thus  reflecting 
she  was  giving  the  lady  a  slight  hand-shake 
214 


ter'g  Carriage 


and  smile.  "  You  must  be  tired.  Do  sit 
down  here.  As  you  see,  our  truant  has 
come  home.  I  am  sure  we  shall  all  soon 
be  happy  again." 

Alma,  on  the  other  hand,  had  not  been 
able  to  rise  to  greet  her  aunt.  She  sat 
steeped  in  wretchedness  and  her  head 
dropped  on  her  breast. 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  sighed  softly  but  dis 
tinctly  and  sat  down.  "  I  am  a  little  tired," 
she  said.  "  You  are  looking  thin,  Alma." 

Alma  lifted  her  head.  She  found  she 
could  speak  and  must  speak.  She  began 
with  some  directness  :  "  Aunt  Louise,  I 
know  that  I  acted  badly  toward  you,  and  I 
am  sincerely  sorry.  I  hope  you  will  pardon 
me.  I  have  been  punished  enough,  and  my 
only  desire  now  is  to  leave  New  York  —  go 
away  where  I  shall  not  be  any  further  trou 
ble  to  you.  I  know  you  will  always  be  re 
minded  of  my  rashness  and  the  mistake  I 
made.  Still,  if  I  had  married  Mr.  Clifford 
I  should  have  made  one  just  as  bad,  or  worse. 
For  even  before  he  spoke  to  you  about  pro 
posing  to  me  I  knew  things  about  his  way 
215 


:'£  Carriage 


of  life.  I  never  dared  to  speak  to  you 
about  it,  for  you  would  have  thought  it 
shocking  for  a  young  girl  to  know  such 
things,  and  you  would  have  been  vexed. 
It  was  Alice  Dow  who  first  told  me,  and 
every  one  considered  her  so  sensible.  She 
told  me  how  Mr.  Clifford  knew  this  same 
woman  that  he  has  finally  married  even  be 
fore  his  first  marriage,  and  how  he  went  back 
to  her  after  each  marriage,  not  always  wait 
ing  for  his  wife  to  die,  either  —  went  back 
to  her,  as  he  said,  forc  comfort  in  disillusion 
ment.'  And  how  each  time  she  took  him 
back  as  patiently  as  she  had  given  him  up 
previously.  And  besides,  how  there  was  a 
child.  Yes,  1  knew  all  this  from  Alice  Dow, 
and  how  could  1  think  of  marrying  such  a 
man  ?  "  She  paused,  breathing  fast  after 
this  flow  of  words. 

"  I  knew  nothing  of  these  stories,"  said 
Mrs.  Sevenbanks,  with  a  slight  chill  of  tone. 
"I  am  greatly  astonished  at  Miss  Dow."  It 
was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  called  Alice 
"  Miss  Dow." 

Ester  Harding  now  thought  it  her  turn 
216 


to  speak.  "  Well,"  she  said,  cheerily,  "  all's 
well  that  is  going  to  end  well.  I  have  been 
saying  to  Alma  that  should  you  approve  she 
might  travel  for  a  time." 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  cleared  her  throat. 
"  Yes,"  she  agreed,  slowly,  "  I  have  decided 
upon  this  plan.  Arrangements  will  be  be 
gun  at  once  for  a  trip.  I  must  explain  to 
you  that  not  long  after  you  had  left  the 
Beach  this  morning  the  mail  was  brought 
up  and  Senor  Roberto  found  a  communi 
cation  that  brought  him  quickly  to  speak 
with  me.  Documents  had  been  forwarded 
to  him  bearing  on  this  very  case,  including 
letters  that  will  have  due  effect.  In  the 
course  of  our  serious  and  careful  conver 
sation  he  gave  me  his  opinion  that  Alma 
should  speedily  seek  legal  separation.  We 
then  decided  that  the  best  course  would  be 
to  start  at  once  for  Dakota,  establish  a  resi 
dence  there  and  engage  the  best  counsel." 

Ester  Harding  looked  a  little  astonished. 
"  From  whom  could  he  have  received  the 
documents  ?  "  she  asked,  doubtfully. 

"  From  an  American  friend  who  is  also  a 
217 


lawyer  in  this  city,  and  who  in  sending  them 
was  acting  in  the  interest  of  a  person — a 
woman  who  makes  some  claim,"  Mrs.  Seven- 
banks  concluded,  rather  haughtily. 

"  Bebe,"  Alma  murmured,  faintly.  She 
was  wondering  who  this  Senor  Roberto 
might  be.  One  of  her  Aunt  Ester's  South 
American  friends,  no  doubt.  The  die  was 
cast,  it  seemed.  She  was  to  go  to  Dakota. 

After  a  moment  Mrs.  Sevenbanks  con 
tinued  :  "  It  will  be  necessary,  of  course,  for 
one  or  both  of  us  to  accompany  Alma. 
The  preparations  can  be  made  in  a  few  days. 
I  do  not  think  I  shall  return  to  the  Beach, 
though  perhaps  it  may  be  necessary  for  you 
to  do  so  in  order  to  look  after  your  friends." 
She  smiled  faintly.  "  The  young  ladies  ap 
pear  devoted  to  golf,  but  as  near  as  I  can 
understand,  object  to  their  mamma  acting  as 
caddy." 

"  They  may  all  have  to  go  to  Dakota  as 
witnesses,"  said  Mrs.  Harding,  taking  a 
cobweb  handkerchief  from  her  sleeve  and 
fanning  herself  with  it  in  a  desperate  way. 
"  It  is  getting  colossal." 
218 


'£  Carriage 


"  I  hardly  think  it  will  be  necessary. 
Depositions  can  be  taken.  We  must  en 
deavor  to  eliminate  all  unnecessary  features, 
if  you  will  permit  me  to  say  so,  my  dear 
Ester." 

The  Spanish  lady  reflected  in  silence. 
"  Why  didn't  he  come  up  to  town  with 
you  ?  "  she  exclaimed,  after  a  moment. 

"  To  whom  do  you  refer  ?  Senor  Ro 
berto  ?  I  was  about  to  tell  you  that  he  did 
come  up  with  me.  He  has  gone  to  his 
hotel." 

"  Good  !  I  will  send  for  him  to  come 
here  after  dinner." 

"  It  is  some  friend  of  yours,  Aunt  Ester, 
this  Senor  Roberto  ?  "  Alma  inquired,  rous 
ing  a  little. 

"  My  dear,  why  of  course.  I  have  not 
had  time  to  mention  it.  An  old  friend  of 
ours,  whom  your  dear  father  knew." 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  glanced  at  her  sister-in- 
law  in  surprise.  "  Had  you  not  told  her  ?  " 
she  asked,  speaking  with  far  more  mildness 
than  before  ;  "  had  you  not  told  her  of  our 
reliance  on  Don  Vasquez  ?  " 
219 


CHAPTER  XXII 

SESfOR    VASQUEZ 

NATURALLY  Ester  Harding  did  not  carry 
out  her  plan  of  sending  for  Sefior  Vasquez 
after  dinner.  For  one  reason,  Alma's  sud 
den  fainting  spell — due  entirely,  as  both 
elder  ladies  agreed,  to  the  intense  heat — had 
alarmed  them,  although  on  recovering  she 
had  insisted  on  going  down  to  dine  with 
them  and  had  actually  taken  a  few  spoonfuls 
of  bouillon.  The  drawing-rooms,  dis 
mantled  and  swathed  in  Summer  linens,  af 
forded  them  no  place  of  repose,  and  they  were 
obliged  to  return  after  dinner  to  the  upper 
stories.  Alma  continued  on  up,  saying  she 
wished  to  lie  down  and  rest,  while  her  aunts 
paused  to  converse  in  Mrs.  Sevenbanks's 
boudoir. 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  sighed  as  she  took  a  seat 

221 


'g  Carriage 


near  the  window.  u  It  seems  strange  to  be 
here  at  this  time,"  she  said.  "  I  have  often 
regretted  that  I  ever  let  my  country  house,. 
It  was  a  serjpus  mistake.  Yet  at  the  time  *s 
seemed  foolish  to  maintain  that  expensive 
establishment  for  one  weary  old  woman  like 
myself  and  a  girl  of  as  simple  and  democratic 
tastes  as  Alma.  It  seemed  especially  foolish 
when  those  Western  people  were  so  anxious 
to  take  it  at  any  price."  She  sighed  again. 
"  I  might  have  asked  them  double  the  sum. 
Living  is  so  costly  nowadays.  Enormous 
taxes  devour  one.  I  would  not  be  sorry  to 
sell  this  house.  There  were  conditions  in 
the  will,  but  they  might  be  met.  I  should 
try  to  find  a  modest  little  home  somewhere 
out  on  the  Riverside  Drive." 

"  You  would  have  to  build  it,"  said  Ester, 
practically.  "  There  is  nothing  there  but 
palaces  and  apartment  hotels.  Taxes  you 
would  never  survive.  I  wonder  what  we 
should  do  if  these  single  tax  lunatics  ever 
got  control.  In  some  tropical  countries 
there  is  no  land  tax.  It  is  paradise.  The 
poorest  peasant  tills  his  own  ground  and 
222 


'£  Carriage 


doesn't  ask  you  for  alms.  Ask  Senor  Vas- 
quez." 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  coughed  slightly.  "  Do 
you  think—  she  lowered  her  voice  —  "  it 
was  the  mention  of  his  name  —  you 
know  -  ' 

"  That  shocked  her  into  fainting  ?  I 
hope  not.  Still,  you  see  the  <  Don  '  doesn't 
go  with  the  surname." 

"  I  dare  say  I  make  painful  blunders," 
Mrs.  Sevenbanks  acquiesced,  with  meek 
sarcasm. 

"  Not  at  all.  But  about  this  trip  to 
Dakota  ?  I  wish  it  were  over  and  the  mat 
ter  settled." 

"  I  thought,"  said  Mrs.  Sevenbanks,  with 
sudden  recollection,  "  that  you  were  unalter 
ably  opposed  to  divorce." 

"  So  I  am  !  so  I  am  !  "  cried  Ester, 
quickly.  "  Theoretically  at  least.  But  if  it 
comes  to  one's  own  flesh  and  blood  being 
linked  to  a  horrid  impostor  —  a  valet  !  Don 
Roberto  broke  it  to  you  gently,  I  know. 
A  valet  !  it  is  more  than  human  nature  can 
endure."  She  rose.  "  I  think,  she  said,  "  I 
223 


ought  to  go  up  and  persuade  Alma  to  retire. 
There  is  always  danger  of  a  low  fever  follow 
ing  on  such  mental  strain.  To-morrow  we 
must  consult  Vasquez,  and  whenever  you 
wish  I  am  ready  to  follow  implicitly  your  in 
structions  and  accompany  you  with  the  poor 
girl  to  the  West.  Rely  on  me,  Louise,  I 
beg  of  you.  No  matter  how  painful  the 
duty,  rely  on  me  to  fulfil  it." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Sevenbanks, 
calmly.  "  Then  if  you  are  going  up  to  Alma 
will  you  kindly  ring  for  Jane  for  me  ?  The 
bell  is  by  the  door.  Thank  you  again,  dear 
Ester.  Good-night,  since  you  must  go." 

Alma  was  already  in  bed,  with  the  cool 
linen  sheet  drawn  close  to  her  chin'.  "  I  am 
not  asleep,"  she  said,  as  Ester  sat  down  be 
side  her,  and  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  Don't 
let  me  have  to  see  Vasquez  !  I  couldn't 
bear  it." 

"  No,  of  course  not.  It  isn't  necessary  at 
all  ;  it  is  really  surprising  what  a  fancy  your 
Aunt  Louise  has  taken  to  him.  I  always 
think  what  a  pity  it  is  that  things  always  hap 
pen  too  late.  Well,  of  course  he  can  be  of 
224 


>0  Carriage 


great  use  to  us  —  as  a  friend,  nothing  more. 
We  must  let  him  be  a  friend  ;  it  is  only  a 
fair  apology  on  our  part  for  your  ever  hav 
ing  misjudged  him  as  you  did,  thinking  him 
in  love  with  that  woman,  when  it  was  really 
Prudencio  —  surely  you  remember  Don  Pru- 
dencio,  his  great  friend,  with  the  invalid 
wife  ?  The  wife  died  ;  so  did  the  super 
fluous  husband  ;  then  Prudencio  married  the 
lady." 

"  Don  Prudencio,"  Alma  repeated, 
huskily.  "  Was  it  really  he  —  not  Vasquez  ? 
Well  —  it  can't  matter  now.  He  would 
never  look  at  me.  I  shall  be  only  an  un 
fortunate  divorced  woman,  who  married  a 
valet." 

Mrs.  Harding  got  up  and  closed  the  door 
softly.  "  My  dear,  there  are  worse  things. 
This  is  a  republic,  remember,  where  all  men 
are  equal.  A  valet  might  be  as  good  as  any 
one  else,  and  his  wife  a  good  deal  better. 
Anyway,"  she  continued,  rather  incon 
sistently,  "  once  you  are  out  of  it  you  will 
be  surprised  how  quickly  people  forget. 
Especially  if  you  should  marry  again.  But 
15  225 


ter'£  Carriage 


there  is  no  need  for  worry.  I  have  an  idea 
we  shall  start  to-morrow  or  the  next  day  for 
the  West.  I  hope  so,  for  it  must  be  cooler 
out  there.  To-morrow  I  have  to  devise  a 
way  to  get  your  clothes  from  that  apart 
ment." 

"  Oh,  yes,  my  clothes,"  said  Alma.  "  I 
suppose  I  shall  need  them." 

"  Well,  one  can't  do  very  well  without 
garments.  I  see  your  arms  are  bare.  Didn't 
Josephine  lay  out  a  nightgown  for  you  ?  I 
must  ring.  Surely  in  a  civilized  house  one 
can  always  command  a  robe  de  nuit." 


226 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE    RECONCILIATION 

MRS.  HARDING  was  the  first  to  alight 
from  the  closed  carriage  as  it  drew  up  before 
the  station.  The  town  was  still  enwrapped 
in  sultriness,  but  Ester  was  not  one  to  com 
plain  of  mere  atmosphere  when  more  impor 
tant  matters  were  pressing.  They  had  been 
busy  for  the  past  forty-eight  hours.  For 
tunately  there  had  been  less  difficulty  than 
she  had  anticipated  in  getting  Alma's  things 
from  the  Madison  avenue  apartment.  When 
the  confidential  messenger  despatched  thither 
to  reconnoiter  came  back  with  word  of  the 
dispossess  notice  tacked  on  the  door  Ester 
had  promptly  summoned  an  expressman  and 
given  him  orders  ;  then  possessed  herself  of 
Alma's  key  and  proceeded  in  person  to  the 
spot  to  pack  up  whatever  she  should  recog 
nize  as  her  niece's.  "  The  fox  is  the  best 
227 


>£  Carriage 


messenger,"  she  quoted  aloud.  She  felt  now 
a  complacent  delight  in  the  belief  that  she 
had  left  no  souvenir  for  the  redoubtable  da 
Veiga  to  exult  over.  She  had  been  forced  to 
admit  to  herself  that  the  rascal  had  excellent 
taste  in  furniture  and  decorations.  She  had 
particularly  admired  the  piano  stool  —  a  giant 
iron  mushroom  with  smaller  mushrooms  at 
the  base,  all  in  the  richest  mushroom-hued 
velvet.  She  had  felt  a  new  sympathy  for  her 
niece  after  getting  the  trunks  packed  and 
carted  away.  What  superb  audacity,  that  of 
the  bogus  Geraldina! 

After  Mrs.  Harding  came  Mrs.  Seven- 
banks,  pale  and  preoccupied,  then  the  giri 
herself.  All  were  in  quiet  traveling  attire 
and  seemed  anxious  to  escape  attention. 
Mrs.  Harding  hastily  sent  the  carnage 
away  and  followed  the  others  into  the  wait 
ing-room. 

"  I  see  nothing  of  Jane,"  said  Mrs. 
Sevenbanks,  irritably,  as  she  gazed  about. 

"  Jane  is  probably  weeping  good-bye  on 
the  butler's  shoulder,"  Mrs.  Harding  an 
swered. 

228 


'0  Carriage 


"  But  she  had  orders  to  be  here  with  the 
bags  and  umbrellas  long  ahead  of  us." 

"  I  will  leave  you  and  Alma  and  go 
through  the  other  rooms.  She  may  be  in 
the  New  Haven  division."  And  Mrs. 
Harding  disappeared.  She  returned  in  a 
few  moments  unsuccessful.  "  I  see  Vas- 
quez  outside,  however,  getting  out  of  a  han 
som,"  she  remarked. 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  sighed  faintly.  "  Ah  ! 
he  promised  to  see  us  off."  At  this  Alma  sank 
down  limp  and  quiet  between  the  iron  arm 
supports  of  the  waiting-room  bench,  while 
Mrs.  Harding  hastened  over  to  the  door  and 
met  the  gentleman  coming  in.  Mrs.  Seven- 
banks  waited  patiently,  not  even  putting  up 
her  glass,  but  the  girl's  keen  eyes  could  see 
distinctly  the  face  and  figure  of  this  friend  of 
days  gone  by.  He  had  not  changed  at  all  ; 
men  stay  the  same,  year  after  year,  while 
women  grow  old  and  hideous  betimes,  she 
thought.  She  felt  very  old  and  drawn  at 
this  moment.  She  hoped  her  Aunt  Ester 
would  keep  him  down  there  at  the  door.  He 
had  the  same  grave  expression  of  perfect  fea- 


'£  Carriage 


tures,  the  same  way  of  lifting  his  hat,  the  same 
walk.  He  was  coming  toward  them  just  as  he 
had  come  toward  her  that  last  evening  —  what 
an  age  of  years  ago  !  —  in  the  tropical  sunset, 
down  the  long  lane  that  led  to  the  potrero. 
It  was  at  the  end  of  the  dry  season  —  the 
grass  was  brittle  as  hay  on  thepotrero  slopes  ; 
so  dry  and  slippery  that  one  could  have 
coasted  down  hill  on  a  wooden-runnered 
sled  to  the  crystal  brooklet  at  the  base. 
The  scent  of  orange  and  lemon  trees  was 
heavy.  He  came  in  at  the  gate  from  the 
road.  It  was  her  father's  suburban  villa  on 
the  hill  above  the  town.  She  had  a  white 
rose  in  her  hair  —  one  of  the  thousand  roses 
that  bloomed  perpetually  on  the  great  climb 
ing  rose  tree  over  the  adobe  wall  before  the 
house.  .  .  . 

The  voice  of  her  Aunt  Sevenbanks  re 
called  her.  She  came  back  with  a  pang  to 
the  present.  "  What  can  they  be  discuss 
ing?"  the  elder  lady  inquired,  impatiently, 
at  last,  and  started  toward  them. 

"  There  is  a  mistake,"  said  Mrs.  Hard 
ing  ;  "  Don  Roberto  tells  me  we  were  mis- 
230 


Jftarriage 


informed,  and  we  have  nearly  an  hour  to 
wait  for  our  train." 

Mrs.  Sevenbanks  was  annoyed.  "  In 
sufficient  time  to  return  home  and  over-suf 
ficient  for  remaining  in  such  a  place,"  she 
commented.  Mrs.  Harding  coincided,  but 
there  was  no  help  for  it.  She  undertook  to 
explain  to  Vasquez  how  there  was  a  new 
waiting-room  being  built  that  should  be 
magnificent  in  white  and  gold.  "  Which 
is  no  great  comfort  at  the  present  moment," 
Mrs.  Sevenbanks  put  in,  drily. 

While  speaking  they  were  all  uncon 
sciously  moving  toward  Alma.  "  That  ac 
counts,  then,  for  Jane's  tardiness,"  said 
Mrs.  Harding.  "  The  butler  knew  the 
time-table  better  than  we."  Mrs.  Seven- 
banks  now  bethought  herself  that  she  would 
like  to  find  a  long-distance  telephone  and 
give  some  instructions  to  the  hotel  man  at 
the  Beach  about  her  luggage  left  there. 
Vasquez  wished  to  be  permitted  to  accom 
pany  her  to  the  booth,  but  she  begged  him 
to  do  her  the  greater  favor  of  remaining  with 
the  others.  She  would  feel  more  at  ease. 
231 


There  was  some  apprehension  in  her  mind; 
she  hardly  could  explain  what  caused  it. 
She  wished  they  were  aboard.  She  floated 
gently  toward  the  door  and  vanished.  Vas- 
quez  stood  gazing  at  Mrs.  Harding  ;  both 
seemed  embarrassed.  Could  he  remain  there 
without  saluting  the  third  lady  of  the  party  ? 
Suddenly  Ester  gave  a  little  cry  :  "  Oh, 
Louise  has  forgotten !  1  must  run  after 
her.  Please  stay  here,  Don  Roberto.  I 
will  come  right  back."  And  she,  too,  was 
gone.  Vasquez  took  a  step  forward.  There 
was  no  other  way.  Alma,  seeing  this,  rose 
and  put  out  her  hand.  She  was  able  to 
speak  composedly.  "  I  have  not  yet  been 
able  to  thank  you — for  all  your  kindness. 
My  aunt  has  told  me — of  your  thoughtful- 
ness — "  Her  voice  failed. 

"I  know  that  you  have  been  ill,"  he  an 
swered,  hastily.  "  It  is  better  to  sit  down 
again,  isn't  it  ?  The  heat " 

"  I  think  I  should  rather  walk,"  she  re 
plied.  "  1  shall  have  to  sit  so  much  on  the 
long  journey." 

"It  is  a  long  journey,"  he    acquiesced, 


gravely.  They  passed  down  the  room. 
"  The  last  time  I  saw  you,"  he  said,  pres 
ently — "  it  must  be  nearly  seven  years  ago. 
The  evening  before  you  left  the  villa  to  re 
turn  to  town,  1  think." 

"  Yes.  I  was  recalling  it  a  moment  ago, 
sitting  there,"  said  Alma,  dully.  "  I  re 
member  it  all.  We  walked  in  the  lane. 
No  doubt  you  have  long  since  forgotten. 
...  I  said  things.  ...  I  was  under  a 
wrong  impression.  1  misjudged  you.  You 
didn't  know  the  reason — you  only  thought 
me  ill-natured  and  jealous.  I  did  you  a  great 
wrong,  it  seems.  I  can  only  ask  you  to 
pardon  me  now  .  .  .  now  when  I  am  in 
trouble — and  disgraced — "  Her  voice 
broke  at  last. 

"  Don't  grieve,"  he  said,  gently  ;  "  don't 
grieve.  I,  too — you  cannot  believe  I  had 
forgotten  anything.  That  last  walk — the 
rose  in  your  hair — the  swift  sunset  and  the 
soft  dusk  before  the  stars.  .  .  .  When  you 
left  me  in  anger  the  rose  fell  out  of 
your  hair — I  have  it  yet.  Some  men — 
remember."  They  had  reached  the  end 
233 


'g  Carriage 


of  the  waiting-room  and  had  to  turn 
abruptly. 

"  I  see  my  Aunt  Ester  coming  back. 
She  has  found  Jane,  it  seems.  Let  us  go  to 
them." 

Thus  the  reconciliation. 

Mrs.  Harding  had  much  to  say  to  the 
maid,  whose  eyes  were  quite  red.  "  But, 
yes,  Jane.  The  idea  of  crying  !  Of  course, 
it  shows  your  good  heart  not  to  want  to 
leave  your  old  grandmother,  but  think  of  the 
nice  journey  and  all  the  sights.  To-morrow 
we  shall  be  in  Chicago,  where  there  are  lakes 
and  things.  You  can  mail  all  the  letters 
you  will  have  written  on  the  train  —  to  Jo 
sephine  and  Nora  and  —  your  grandmother. 
Then  it's  only  three  months,  and  when  you 
come  back  —  handsome  Christmas  presents." 

Never  had  Ester  Harding  been  so  loqua 
cious  with  a  servant.  But  Alma  and  Vas- 
quez  stood  close  to  her  in  silence.  Their 
duet  was  over.  Had  they  been  alone  they 
could  not  have  spoken.  There  was  some 
thing  between  them  like  a  great  blur  that 
obscured  all  things  and  deadened  the  soul  — 
234 


'g  Carriage 


something  that  must  be  obliterated,  wiped 
away  forever. 

The  moments  wore  on  toward  train  time. 
The  gateman  opened  the  door  and  took  his 
place.  The  guards  began  to  call  out  the 
through  express  for  the  West.  "  We  could 
go  aboard  if  only  Louise  would  come,"  said 
Mrs.  Harding.  "  She  has  all  the  tickets." 
The  three  moved  uneasily.  Time  was 
passing.  "  Here  she  comes,"  cried  Ester, 
suddenly.  Mrs.  Sevenbanks  came  hurry 
ing  along.  Her  face  was  pale  with  terror. 

"  He  is  out  there,"  she  gasped  to  her 
sister-in-law."  "  Da  Veiga  —  following  us  !  " 
All  heard  her  words. 

"  Quick  —  the  tickets,  please  !  "  cried  Vas- 
quez,  sharply.  "  Follow  me  —  we  must  get 
aboard  !  " 


235 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

ON    THE    TRAIN 

How  he  succeeded  Vasquez  afterward 
never  quite  remembered.  A  generous  fee 
enlisted  the  services  of  the  colored  porter, 
and  the  three  ladies  and  the  maid  were 
speedily  concealed  in  the  curtains  of  their 
adjoining  sections.  Vasquez  breathed  freer 
when  they  were  out  of  sight.  Their  fright 
ened  faces  had  been  painful.  He  conversed 
with  them  in  low  tones  for  a  time,  then  bade 
them  good-bye.  Ester  recalled  him  for  an 
instant  ;  would  he  not  look  carefully  about 
the  station  to  see  .  .  . 

He  started  again.  But  in  the  vestibule 
he  found  his  passage  blocked  by  a  large  fig 
ure.  He  had  studied  Pepito  Gonzalez's 
blue  prints  too  well  to  be  mistaken.  This 
was  really  the  bogus  Count  pursuing  them. 
How  had  he  passed  the  gates  ? 
237 


'$  Carriage 


The  two  men  stood  gazing  at  each  other. 
Then  slowly  and  quietly  Vasquez  receded. 
He  backed  through  the  passage  into  the  car 
aisle.  Could  he  warn  them  ?  Da  Veiga 
spared  him  the  trouble. 

"  You  did  bring  with  you  in  this  car  my 
wife  ?  "  His  accusation  was  so  aggressively 
audible  that  other  passengers  arriving  or  al 
ready  ensconced  turned  quickly  or  thrust 
out  curious  heads. 

But  Vasquez  regarded  him  with  unmoved 
features.  "  You  were  speaking  to  me,  sir  ?  " 
he  inquired,  indifferently. 

"  I  say  you  did  bring  'ere  my  wife  !  "  da 
Veiga  insisted,  more  loudly. 

"  You  mistake,  sir.  Do  me  the  favor  to 
pass  on." 

There  was  silence  in  the  car  ;  every  one 
was  listening.  As  the  porter  came  hurrying 
through  with  a  belated  traveler's  bag  and 
a  "  'Scuse  me,  sah,  jes'  wanter  set  this 
down,"  da  Veiga  appealed  furiously  to  him. 
"  This  man  'e  'ave  rob  my  wife  !  "  he 
shouted. 

Vasquez,  with  his  back  to  the  curtains  be- 
238 


'£  Carriage 


hind  which  Mrs.  Harding  and  Alma,  Mrs. 
Sevenbanks  and  her  maid  seemed  all  to  have 
crept  into  their  berths,  made  tranquil  com 
plaint.  "  Porter,  this  person  has  made  a 
mistake  and  is  annoying  my  family.  Can 
you,  perhaps,  find  the  lady  he  wants  in  the 
other  sleeper  ?  " 

"  We's  a-startin'  now,  sah.  Anybody 
bes'  git  off  if  they  isn't  goin'  along,  sah. 
No  stop  till  Sing  Sing.  Bes'  hurry,  sah," 
he  admonished  the  excited  new-comer. 

The  train  was  moving.  They  were  off. 
The  porter  hurried  out.  As  the  speed  of 
the  train  increased  the  two  men  rocked  a 
little  where  they  stood.  Vasquez  did  not 
mind  being  carried  off.  He  knew  he  could 
explain  and  pay  fare  to  —  where  did  the 
porter  say  ?  —  Sing  Sing,  or  further.  He 
wondered  if  he  would  better  go  all  the  way 
to  Chicago.  There  were  reasons  why  he 
would  rather  not  go  ;  other  reasons,  perhaps 
stronger,  why  he  should.  The  possibility 
of  idle  gossip  in  after  days  should  not  out 
weigh  the  necessity  of  protecting  these 
frightened  women.  He  was  sure  he  heard 
239 


'g  Carriage 


the  maid  whimpering,  though  the  others 
hardly  breathed. 

The  train  rumbled  on,  more  dully, 
through  a  tunnel.  After  a  little  an  official 
of  some  sort  came  through  —  the  conductor, 
Vasquez  imagined.  This  employe  he  ad 
dressed  in  atone  of  reasonable  remonstrance. 
"  This  man  has  made  a  mistake  and  persists 
in  annoying  my  family.  One  of  the  ladies 
has  been  ill  ;  they  have  all  retired." 

"  Not  is  so  !  "  cried  da  Veiga,  hoarsely. 
"  I  did  see  'er  aunt,  then  I  did  buy  one 
ticket  -  " 

The  conductor  lifted  his  lantern. 
"  Um-m,  let  me  see  the  ticket.  Yours, 
too,  if  you  please,  sir."  He  modified  his 
tone  somewhat  in  addressing  the  gentleman 
with  the  family.  A  slender  hand  came  out 
from  behind  the  curtains  with  the  necessary 
slips.  It  was  Ester  Harding's  hand  with  its 
"  duchess  "  ring  of  opals  and  diamonds. 
The  official  returned  the  check  to  da  Veiga. 
"  This  is  all  right  to  Sing  Sing  —  in  another 
car,  not  this."  He  eyed  the  peculiar-  look 
ing  traveler  shrewdly.  "  Foreigner,  I  pre- 
240 


'£  Carriage 


sume.  Well,  you  pass  along  ahead  and  I 
will  look  into  this  matter  for  you."  He 
turned  to  Vasquez.  "  Lady  sick  ?  Four, 
two  sections  —  "  He  hesitated.  But  Vas 
quez  was  prepared.  He  had  produced  a 
twenty-dollar  bill.  "  I  was  not  going  my 
self,"  he  explained,  quietly.  "  I  saw  my 
family  aboard  and  wished  to  get  off.  You 
might  with  this  bill  arrange  for  me.  At  the 

D  O 

first  stop  I  can  alight." 

"  If  so  'e  did  not  bring  my  wife,"  cried  da 
Veiga,  "  why  she  will  not  put  out  'er  'ead 
till  I  see  ?  One  'and  I  see,  all  diamonds.'' 

The  official  regarded  the  bill.  "  Guess 
you'd  better  humor  him,"  he  suggested, 
under  his  breath.  "  Seems  a  little  cracked." 

Vasquez  looked  annoyed.  "  Since  you 
request  it."  He  turned  and  spoke  through 
the  drapery  :  "  Jane,  just  look  out  here  for 
a  moment." 

The  curtains  parted.  A  sandy  head  and 
a  pair  of  reddened  eyelids  came  into  view 
from  the  upper  berth.  The  official  looked 
at  da  Veiga.  "Well,  is  that  your  wife?" 
he  asked,  sharply. 

241 


'£  Carriage 


"  No  !  "  came  the  answer,  in  a  roar  of  rage. 

"  Pass  right  along,  then,  please.  Can't 
have  the  passengers  disturbed." 

"She  is  there!"  da  Veiga  wailingly  insisted. 

Vasquez  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  How 
much  longer  must  this  go  on  ?  We  paid 
for  sleeping  accommodations." 

"  Certainly,  sir.  Um-m  —  lady  in  lower 
berth  wife's  mother  ?  " 

"  Who  else  should  she  be  ?  "  He  hoped 
Mrs.  Sevenbanks  would  forgive  him.  "In 
the  morning,"  he  added,  "  he  can  discover 
for  himself." 

"  That  is  fair  enough,"  said  the  official. 

Da  Veiga  suddenly  collapsed  into  meek 
ness.  "  Vare  well,  Mr.  Conductor.  I  go 
with  you  in  that  other  car."  His  broad 
shoulders  moved  along  the  aisle.  Vasquez 
drew  a  long  breath.  Suddenly  he  noticed 
great  drops  of  perspiration  on  his  face  and 
hands.  Was  it  such  a  warm  night,  then  ? 

"  Don  Roberto  !  "  he  heard  Ester  Hard 
ing  calling  him. 

"  Yes,  senora"  he  answered,  in  Spanish. 
"  He  has  gone." 

242 


'g  Carriage 


"  But  he  will  return." 

"  I  hope  not.  If  so,  I  will  meet  him  at 
the  door.  At  Sing  Sing  he  must  get  off  — 
before  I  do." 

"  At  what  time  will  that  be  ?  " 

"  In  about  an  hour  —  or  two,  I  suppose." 

"  A've  Maria  I  Who  could  have  foreseen 
this  ?  Jane  put  her  head  out  ?  " 

"  Very  nobly.  We  must  remember 
Jane." 

"  Her  mother  •,  too,  eh  ?  " 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  senora  !  It  was  un 
avoidable." 

"  Was  every  one  listening  ?  " 

"  Not  so  particularly.  It  is  true  he 
yelled.  You  are  all  comfortable,  senoray  I 
trust,  and  I  will  go  out  to  the  other  car  and 
see  where  he  is.  He  agreed  to  wait  till 
morning,  but  his  ticket  is  only  to  Sing  Sing." 

"  Good  heavens  !  Then  go  quickly,  Don 
Roberto.  Heaven  protect  you  !  " 


243 


CHAPTER  XXV 

A     DESPERATE     STRUGGLE 

"  You  are  asleep,  Alma  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  It  is  very  hot  up  there  ?  " 

"  I  don't  mind  ;  but  I  am  thirsty.  Will 
you  let  me  take  your  wrap  to  go  for  a 
drink  ?" 

"  Of  course — here.  .  .  .  Can  you  get 
down  ?  Don't  fall.  Wait ;  hadn't  you 
better  let  me  fetch  the  water?  " 

"  I  can  go  very  well."  She  drew  on  the 
gauze-like  traveling  cloak.  Her  bare  arms 
looked  thin  and  pallid  in  the  flowing  sleeves. 
"  I  am  all  right  now,"  she  said  ;  "  I  had  not 
taken  off  my  shoes,  even." 

"  Hurry  back." 

"  Oh,  there's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of — 
now."  She  balanced  herself  carefully  along 
245 


'£  Carriage 


between  the  section  hangings.  On  she 
went,  to  the  end  of  the  car.  There  Vasquez 
met  and  stopped  her. 

"  Go  back  quickly  !  "  he  said  ;  but  too 
late.  Da  Veiga  was  confronting  them. 

"  Liars  of  the  devil  !  "  was  his  greeting  in 
Spanish.  "  Liars  of  the  infernal  !  You  try 
to  ruin  a  poor  foreigner  !  "  Suddenly  he 
changed  to  English.  "  I  will  find  that  con 
ductor  and  I  will  prove  to  'im.  Then  I 
will  make  you  to  be  sorry  for  this  trick." 

"  Silence  !  "  said  Vasquez,  in  his  own 
language.  "  You  will  leave  this  car  ;  you 
have  no  right  here.  The  porter  will  fling 
you  out.  And  you  will  hold  your  tongue 
and  leave  this  train  at  Sing  Sing,  and  after 
that  go  back  to  New  York.  If  you  do  all 
this,  it  may  be  this  lady's  family  will  have 
pity  and  not  send  you  to  prison  for  big 
amy.  You  hear  ?  " 

Da  Veiga  only  laughed.  He  seemed  to 
feel  master  of  the  situation.  "  I  f  I  have  one 
wife  there  is  no  bigamy,"  he  said,  returning 
to  Spanish.  "  I  have  one  at  first,  perhaps, 
and  while  she  is  yet  living  1  marry  another. 
246 


'If  you  do  all  this,  it  may  be  this  lady's  family  u'ill  hai'c  pity 
and  not  send  you  to  prison  for  bigamy.'  '' 


'£  Carriage 


Then  the  first  one  dies  and  I  marry  still  an 
other  —  they  are  all  diablos.  But  this  last  I 
can  do  because  the  second  was  not  my  wife 
by  the  law.  These  laws  of  this  country  are 
truly  good  and  wise  !  " 

"  Enough  of  that  !  I  say  you  must  get 
out  of  here  !  " 

"  And  I  say  I  defy  you  !  I  make  one 
scandal  and  I  take  back  my  wife  that  stands 
beside  you.  I  take  'er  back,  and  if  she  say 
one  word  I  take  the  throat  in  my  two  'ands 
so,  and  I  choke  —  you  'ear,  I  choke  -  " 

Alma  gave  a  gasping  cry  and  reached  out 
and  clung  to  Vasquez.  "  Roberto,  save 
me  !  "  she  exclaimed.  She  hung  to  him  in 
terror.  He  could  feel  her  naked  arms  cold 
and  smooth  as  ivory,  where  the  wide  sleeves 
slipped  back.  "  Save  me  !  "  she  repeated. 

He  supported  her  for  an  instant,  then, 
"  Go  back  to  your  aunt,"  he  said  ;  "  leave 
me  to  settle  with  him.  I  beg  you  to  go 
back  !  " 

Their  eyes  met.  Each  seemed  passion 
ately  to  implore  the  other. 

"  I  will,"  she  murmured,  and  obeyed. 
247 


'£  Carriage 


"  You  will  return  to  the  other  car,"  said 
Vasquez,  slowly.  "  I  will  go  with  you  and 
you  will  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say.  On 
behalf  of  this  lady  and  her  family  I  will  make 
a  proposition  to  you,  and  you  will  agree  to 
accept  it  —  if  you  are  wise.  They  may  even 
allow  you  a  sum  of  money.  At  any  rate,  you 
will  escape  the  courts  and  prison.  Now  lead 
the  way  without  a  moment's  waste  of  time. 
We  shall  be  in  Sing  Sing  in  five  minutes, 
and  you  get  off  there." 

They  were  now  out  on  the  platform, 
where  the  day  coach  joined  the  sleeper. 

"  You  think  I  am  a  fool,"  said  da  Veiga, 
returning  to  Spanish.  "  For  money  ?  I 
need  only  to  go  in  there  and  drag  that  old 
woman  with  the  blond  wig  from  her  berth. 
That  old  Mrs.  Sevenbanks  —  she  will  give 
money,  diamonds  —  all  she  has  —  if  I  will  be 
quiet  and  make  no  scandal.  I  can  get 
money.  It  is  my  wife  I  want.  I  will  have 
my  wife  !  " 

"  Your  wife  is  in  New  York." 

"  Mentira  I  " 

"  Your  wife  is  in  New  York.  Go  back  to 
248 


's  Carriage 


her  and  show  sense.  She  likes  you  ;  go 
back  and  beg  her  pardon.  And  —  hold  your 
tongue  I  " 

"  For  one  million  dollars  I  will  not  hold 
my  tongue  !  " 

"  Then  jail  for  years  !  " 

"  I  have  no  fear.  You  —  you  are  her 
lover,  but  she  is  my  wife." 

"  I  give  you  thirty  seconds  to  get  back  to 
your  seat  -  " 

Da  Veiga  sprang  upon  him.  Vasquez, 
though  tall,  was  slight,  but  he  was  alert  and 
wiry.  They  grappled,  struggled.  Da 
Veiga  had  the  advantage. 

Vasquez  felt  himself  choking,  strangling. 
Then  by  some  chance  movement  he  gained 
hold  of  the  other's  arm  —  a  peculiar  hold. 
Afterward,  reading  of  Jit  Jitsu  methods,  he 
wondered  if  he  had  saved  himself  uncon 
sciously  by  one  of  them.  Da  Veiga  uttered 
a  peculiar  cry  and  fell.  He  fell  backward, 
seemed  not  to  stop  falling  until  down  the 
steps  .  .  .  and  the  train  went  on  in  the 
darkness. 

Vasquez,  supporting  himself  weakly  by 
249 


'£  Carriage 


the  car  door,  heard  some  one  inquiring, 
"  What's  the  matter?  "  It  was  the  conduc 
tor  with  the  lantern. 

He  had  not  breath  to  reply  at  once. 
"  That  fellow  —  attacked  me." 

"  Who,  that  foreign  fellow  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Where  is  he  gone  now  ?  " 

Vasquez  looked  toward  the  outer  darkness. 
"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  slowly,  with 
a  shudder. 


250 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A    FINAL    WORD 

ON  a  crisp  Midwinter  night  two  ladies 
well  wrapped  in  furs  descended  from  an 
automobile  before  the  new  waiting-room  of 
the  great  station.  Ester  Harding  was  seeing 
off  an  English  cousin  by  marriage,  a  Harding 
of  agreeable  manners,  who  was  going  to  join 
a  house-party  in  New  England.  Ester  was 
very  cheerful.  "  They  got  it  finished  at 
last,"  she  said,  "  and  it's  a  work  of  art.  I 
mean  this  station.  Too  well  I  remember 
a  certain  hot  night  last  Summer  when  it 
wasn't  finished  and  we  had  to  wait  in  a  place 
around  the  corner,  a  Noah's  Ark  sort  of 
place."  She  turned  to  the  driver.  "  You 
are  to  remain  for  me,  you  know." 

"  But  this  is  quite  a  charming  arrange 
ment,"  said  the  English  lady  as  they  entered 
251 


'£  Carriage 


the  great  hall.  "It  seems  all  marble  and 
electricity." 

Ester  was  looking  about  for  seats.  "  So 
it  is,"  she  answered,  carelessly.  "  And 
what  a  crowd  !  Trains  for  everywhere 
leaving  all  the  time.  You  have  ten  minutes 
yet.  By-the-bye,  you  were  saying  the  Dows 
would  be  in  your  party.  I  hope  you  will 
like  them." 

"Which  means  you  don't." 

"  I  don't  know  them  —  no,  that's  wrong  — 
1  mean  they  don't  know  me." 

But  they  are  friends  of  Mrs.  Seven- 
banks  ?  " 

"  That  is  true.  They  will  no  doubt  have 
much  to  ask  you  about  Louise.  Do  not 
fail  to  tell  them  how  enthusiastically  she  set 
sail  for  South  America.  They  will  not  be 
lieve  it,  of  course,  but  tell  them  just  the 
same.  I  dare  say  I  shouldn't  have  believed 
it  myself.  But  she  was  in  good  spirits." 

"  You  think  she  foresees  a  happy  ending 
of  —  the  romance  ?  " 

Ester  shrugged  lightly.  "  It  was  rather  a 
matter  of  duty.  Proper-minded  people  are 
252 


'£  Carriage 


always  happiest  when  performing  their 
duty,  you  know  Alma  was  far  from  well,  and 
it  was  Louise's  duty  to  take  her  to  a  warmer 
climate.  You  couldn't  expect  the  girl  to  be 
strong  after  a  shock  of  that  kind.  .  .  . 
Vasquez  broke  it  very  gently,  of  course. 
Imagine  !  he  kept  the  secret  and  allowed  us 
to  continue  on  all  the  way  to  Chicago.  You 
see,  when  it  happened  the  train  was  rapidly 
approaching  a  town,  and  aid  was  sent  back 
at  once." 

"  How  dreadful  !  And  the  man  was 
dead  ?  " 

"  Absolutely.  It  was  dreadful,  .  .  . 
but  somehow,  you  know,  I  didn't  feel  so  ter 
ribly  sorry.  What  impressed  me  was  the 
way  he  handled  the  matter  —  I  mean  Vasquez. 
No  scandal  in  the  papers  —  positively  mirac 
ulous,  that.  As  the  train  came  to  a  stop  in 
the  station  he  hurriedly  bade  us  good-bye  and 
assured  us  that  da  Veiga  had  already  got 
off—  quietly.  Imagine!  Got  off  quietly  ! 
We  went  on  to  Chicago  and  there  found  a 

telegram  breaking  the  news  to  us." 
0 

"Fancy  !  "  said  the  Englishwoman  ;  "  keep- 
253 


ing  it  out  of  the  papers  was  clever.  Isn't  it 
time  for  me  to  go  aboard  ?  " 

"  I  fear  it  is,  my  dear." 

"  Then  au  revoir.  Ester.  By-the-bye,  did 
this  heroic  'Vasquez  sail  with  Mrs.  Seven- 
banks  and  Alma  ?  " 

"  Cousin  Marian  !  you  surprise  me.  Cer 
tainly  not.  He  is  perfectly  good  form.  He 
waited  for  the  following  steamer." 


FINIS 


254 


PERKINS,  THE  FAKEER 

An  Amusing  Travesty  on  Reincarnation 

BY 

EDWARD   S.  VAN  ZILE 

A  Yankee,  after  long  residence  in  the  East,  has 
become  an  adept  in  magical  arts,  and  on  his 
return  to  America  amuses  himself  by  occult 
pranks  that  involve  innocent  persons  in  appalling 
dilemmas.  The  author's  humor  is  distinctive  and 
unfailing;  the  plot  is  absorbing.  The  book  does 
not  contain  a  dull  line  or  a  sad  one. 

New  York  Sun  -"The  reader  may  be  assured  that  he  will  b« 
amused  and  entertained." 

New  York  American.—"  More  than  witty  and  more  than  weird, 
•while  it  combines  both  these  qualities  and  many  more." 

Philadelphia  Record.—"  Cleverly  told,  and  the  volume  capably 
enacts  its  allotted  role  of  furnishing  light  entertainment  for  th« 
reader.' 

5*.  Louts  Republic.—1"  A  laugh  invariably  accompanies  the  read 
ing  of  nearly  every  paragraph." 

Cleveland  Recorder.— "The  story  Is  a  most  original  one." 

To'uin  Topics.—"  I  hailed  them  with  joy  for  their  originality  mnd 

irresistible  drollery." 

Troy  Press.—"  Perkins,  the  Fakeer^  uses  his  powers  in  an  alarm 
ing,  as  well  as  an  amusing,  manner." 

Omaha  World-Herald  — "  In  this  hour  of  the  wearisome  so-called 
'historical  novel '  it  is  a  relief,  indeed,  to  come  to  know  the  fasci 
nating  Mr.  Perkins." 

Toledo  Blade. -"The  tales  are  amusing,  and  if  they  wer«  playt, 

would  be  billed  as  side-splitters." 

Illustrated  by  HY.  MAYER.     $1.00  net. 

THE  SMART  SET  PUBLISHING  CO. 

452  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York  City 


A  Puritan  Witch 

o#  cRpmantic  Love  Story 
By    MARVIN    DANA 


This  is  a  romance  that  abounds  in  the  best  qualities  of 
the  best  fiction :  action  that  is  essential  and  vigorous,  senti 
ment  that  is  genuine  and  pure,  a  plot  that  is  new  and  stir 
ring,  a  setting  that  is  fitting  and  distinctive.  The  artistic 
conception  of  the  story  happily  unites  realism  and  romance. 
The  reader's  interest  is  aroused  in  the  first  chapter;  it  is 
increased  steadily  to  the  climax  of  a  happy  ending. 


Nne  York  Titita  Saturday  Review  of  Books. — "A  lively,  warm-blooded,  eager 
girl." 

AV»  York  Herald. — "He  has  drawn  his  jealous  woman  with  considerable 
power,  and  he  has  deftly  intermingled  with  the  more  lurid  episodes  some  love  scenes 
which  have  their  lyric  charm." 

Nno  York  Commercial  Advertiser. — "Compelling  attention  by  the  novelty  of 
its  theme,  and  also.in  part  by  a  certain  sensuous  charm  of  its  smooth-flowing 
proie." 

Edgar  Saltus  in  AV»  York  American. — "Both  (Nathaniel  Hawthorn*  and 
Mr.  Dana)  have  produced  that  little  shiver  which,  in  literature,  Victor  Hugo  said,  i* 
the  one  thing  that  counts. " 

Batten.  Globe. — "  A  book  of  rare  quality  and  absorbing  interest." 

Brooklyn  Eagle — "A  love  story  of  rare  tenderness  and  simplicity.  .  .  . 
Tells  itself  with  toe  breath  of  living  emotions." 

Chicago  Tribune. — "A  simple  love  idyll.  .  .  .  Power  gives  way  to  patho* 
and  passion  melts  the  barriers  of  prudishness,  clearing  a  path  to  happiness." 

Town  Topict. — "  First  and  last  a  love  story,  and  its  truth  belongs  to  the  present 
as  well  as  the  past." 

St.  Lews  Mirror. — "  Essentially  original  and  thoroughly  readable.  ...  A 
book  that  should  prove  welcome  to  fastidious  fiction-readers." 

Pittiburg  Dispatch. — "A  tragedy  of  intense  interest.     .    .     .    Thrilling  told." 

The  Literary  World. — "Although  the  sympathies  of  the  reader  are  with  the 
persecuted  heroine,  and  her  trials  and  tribulations  at  the  hands  of  the  witch-finders, 
and  although  the  method  of  her  escape  is  one  of  the  best -contrived  episodes  known 
in  fiction,  yet  the  most  absorbing  bit  in  the  book  is  the  analysis  and  development  of 
the  character  of  Anna,  the  mischief-maker  of  the  tale." 


Illustrated  by  F.  It.  Audibcrt.    $1.25 


THE  SMART  SET  PUBLISHING  CO. 

452  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York  City 


The  Fighting  Chance 

THE   ROHANCE  OP  AN  INGENUE 
By  Gertrude  Lynch 


The  story  is  a  modern  romance  dealing  with 
prominent  public  characters  in  Washington 
political  life,  depicting  a  vivid  picture  of  a  phase 
in  the  career  of  an  honest  statesman.  The  theme 
is  treated  with  great  skill,  and  the  love  interest  in 
the  story  is  fascinating,  while  the  plot  is  abso 
lutely  distinctive — as  original  as  it  is  satisfying. 


New  York  World.— "The  author's  personal  experience  enables 
her  to  write  luminously  of  department  life  in  Washington." 

Buffalo  Courier.— "  Will  have  its  place  among  the  best  stories 
which  "have  dealt  with  incidents  in  the  careers  of  American  states 
men." 

Army  and  Navy  Register.— ''A  storv  based  on  politics,  admirably 
adapted  for  Summer  reading.  It  is  fiction  pure  and  simple." 

Pittsburg  Dispatch.—"  A   story  of  a  pretty  and  designing  in- 
uet  >vfio  supplies  the  love  complications.    It  is  a  study  of  diplo 
macy  in  love,  as  well  as  in  politics— subtly  analytical." 

Salt  Lake  Tribune.— "  A  story  of  the  diplomatic  world,  in  which 
the  statesman  is  faithfully  sketched.  It  is  a  pleasant  story  that  de 
serves  a  brisk  demand." 

Columbus  Press  — "  It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  better  book  for 
a  Summer  afternoon  " 

Charleston  News.— "A  valuable  contribution  to  contempora 
neous  fiction." 


Illustrated  by  Bayard  Jones.     $1.25 


THE  SMART  SET  PUBLISHING  CO. 

452  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York  City 


..  A  Successful  Book .« 
Nigger  Baby 

...AND... 

Nine  Beasts 

By  ALMA  FLORENCE  PORTER 


Lovers  of  Animals  everywhere  have  expressed  their 

appreciation  of  this  dainty,  fascinating 

volume  of  animal  stories* 


The  stories  are  beautifully  illustrated  by 
Gustave  Verbeek,  and  handsomely  printed  on 
hand-made,  deckel-edge  paper,  with  cloth, 
binding,  illuminated  cover  and  gilt  tops.  Your 
newsdealer  has  it  or  will  secure  it  for  you,  or 
it  will  be  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  prices 
$1.50,  by  the 

Ess  Ess  Publishing  Company 

452  FIFTH  AVENUE.  NEW  FORK 


The  Vulgarians 

BY  EDGAR.  FAWCETT 


In  this  story  the  author  has  achieved  the  best  expression 
of  his  genius.  Parvenus  of  immense  wealth  are  here  made 
real  before  the  reader,  and  not  only  real,  but  lovable  as 
well.  The  story  is  at  once  ingenious  and  simple,  enter 
taining  and  profound.  It  is  a  most  valuable  picture  of 
American  life,  drawn  from  facts,  and  must  stand  as  an 
important  contribution  to  literature. 

New  York  Times  Saturday  Review  of  Books.— "It  Is  a  bright, 

entertaining  story." 

New  York  Sun.—11  In  New  York  they  (the  vulgarians)  fared  better, 
and  the  reader  may  be  interested  in  observing  how  its  civilizing 
Influence  transformed  them,  and  how,  with  the  assistance  of  a  charm 
ing  woman,  they  were  steered  c.ear  of  many  pitfalls." 

Washington  Post.  —  "Tells  of  a  family  from  the  West  who  already 
had  money  enough  to  make  them  comfortably  happy,  and  when 
unexpected  fortune  dropped  down  upon  them,  were  awed  with  their 
own  importance  and  felt,  as  all  newly  rich,  that  they  must  neces 
sarily  make  a  splurge.  The  book  relates  a  story  very  common  In 
this  country,  and  is  entertaining." 

Pittsburg-  Dispatch  "  He  has  painted  for  us,  too,  his  ideal  of  A 
social  hero'ne  (a  New  York  woman,  of  course)  who  is  not  a  vulgarian 
of  either  the  Western  or  the  Eastern  type." 

Irand  Rapids  Herald.    "  Young  parvenus,  who,  like  Lochlnvar. 
ne  out  of  the  West,'  are  those  of  whom  Mr.  Fawcett  wriies,  and 


Gr 

'came  01     

his  sympathetic  touch  is  unfailing;  yet  there  Is  an  underlying  cur 
rent  of  humor  that  is  delightful." 

Salt  Lake  Tribune.  — "  The  reader  will  not  lose  interest  from  th« 
first  page  to  the  last ;  it  will  serve  admirably  to  pass  away  a  Summer 
afternoon." 

Book  and  Magazine  News.—"  \  characteristic  story  of  Summer 
life.  The  plot  is  full  of  excitement." 

Charleston  News.-  "Edgar  Fawcett  has  produced  many  novels 
which  have  been  perfect  pictures  <  f  certain  phases  of  life,  but  in 
'The  Vulgarians,'  his  late.it  story,  his  art  becomes  almost  photo 
graphic."  

Illustrated  by  Archie  Gunn,  $1.OO 


THE  SMART  SET  PUBLISHING  CO. 

452  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York  City 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

305  De  Neve  Drive  -  Parking  Lot  17  •  Box  951388 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA  90095-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library  from  which  it  was  borrowed. 

UCLA  YRL ILL 


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